THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


JUVENILE    POEMS 


Heal,  Incidental  and  Imaginary. 


By  LILLIAN   E.CURTIS, 


AUTHOR  OF  "  FORGET-MB-VOT." 


Timidly,  little  work,  I  launch  thee  on  the  vast  literary  sea ; 

But  though  vividly  thy  shortcomings  may  appear, 

May'st  thou  find  some  to  hold  thee  dear — 
To  look  kindly  on  thy  imperfections,  and  place  thee  in  their  affections. 

May'st  thou  be  the  germ  to  future  blossoms,  rich  and  fair, 
Blossoms  that  may  redeem  features  where  thou  dost  fail ; 

And  may  you,  readers,  who  peruse  this  bud  with  care, 
Pause  lightly  where  you  find  its  interest  pale; 

And,  lenient  reader,  may  you  your  kind  attention  loan. 

Give  it  a  place  within  your  heart — a  place  within  your  home. 


CHICAGO,  ILLINOIS, 
1875. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1875, 

By  LILLIAN  E.  CURTIS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington 


OTTAWAY  &  COLBBRT,  HARDER,  LUSE  &  CO., 

PRINTERS,  CHICAGO, 

147  &  149  Fifth  Ave.,  Chicazo.  Electrotypers  and  Stereotypers. 


NOTE  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


DEAR  READERS  : — Some  of  you  are  already  acquainted  with 
my  writings  through  the  medium  of  "Forget-me-not" — that  book 
of  childish  rhymes  which  in  fancy,  at  least,  paved  the  way  to  a 
castle  of  literary  hopes  for  the  future.  Yes,  my  first  and  scarce- 
ly presentable  effort,  you,  generous  and  considerate  reader,  gave 
a  warm  and  welcome  reception,  even  beyond  my  most  sanguine 
expectations  ;  and  as  a  reward  for  your  patience  and  lenity  over 
a  child's  scribbling,  I  purposed  to  offer  as  a  successor  to  that 
crude  attempt,  "  The  Casket,"  a  volume  of  about  four  hundred 
pages,  on  which  I  had  been  engaged  since  the  publication  of  For- 
get-me-not in  1872;  but  finding  myself  totally  debarred  of  that 
pleasure,  I  make  the  best  of  a  bad  matter,  by  asking  your  atten- 
tion to  a  patched-up  substitute,  viz. :  "  Patchwork  :"  so  called — 
but  I  will  leave  the  origin  of  the  title  to  your  imagination,  whicr\ 
undoubtedly  it  can  supply  without  difficulty.  Suffice  to  say  that 
the  fire  of  July  14  was  the  cause  of  the  MSS.'  destruction,  and 
also  of  a  large  canvassing  list  for  the  same.  This  modest  volume, 
then,  which  chances  to  make  its  debut  before  you,  may  you,  gentle 
reader,  look  upon  kindly  and  without  repulsion,  considering  if 
that  fatal  fire  had  not  occurred,  the  unassuming  petitioner  would 
not  have  been  asking  for  a  share  of  your  attention  ;  but,  alas,  on 
just  such  slender  threads  hang  even  the  greatest  of  life's  events. 

L.  E.  C. 

CHICAGO,  Nov.  18,  1874. 


759392 


DEDICATION  SONNET. 


I'O   MY   MOTHER. 

FRIEND  of  my  infancy,  still  friend  of  my  youth 

Friend  whose  love  hath  ever  been  mine, 
Friend  of  virtue,  valor,  wisdom  and  truth, 

What  a  life  of  lovely  devotion  is  thine  : 
Thy  feet  uncomplainingly  tread  the  rough  paths  of  duty, 

And  thy  service  welling  up  from  love's  purest  store, 
Bubbling  out  with  graceful,  angelic  beauty, 

O'er  thy  darling's  head  doth  constantly  pour : 
Thine  assistance,  advice  and  counsel  in  this  world  of  strife 

Were  richer  than  a  crown  in  rubies  set, 
O'er  the  sky  of  my  y'pung  and  inexperienced  life, 

And  thy  guidance  and  teachings  may  I  not  forget : 
Kind  teachings  that  my  faltering  steps  direct, 

And  urge  within  right's  castle  railings, 
That  coming  years  (if  seen)  a  life  may  yet  perfect, 

Which  hath  now  so  many  failings : 
Ah,  loving  arms  that  fondly,  affectionately  extend, 

To  bring  me  within  a  pure  life  fold, 
Know,  I  count  thee  my  most  precious  friend, 

And  my  wealth  of  gratitude  is  untold, 
And  as  a  token  of  these  professed  and  ardent  vows — 
As  my  scattered  rythmic  waifs  I  house 

Within  the  embrace  of  this  unpretending  book. 
Though  in  it  no  Shakesperian  brilliants  shine, 

Kindly  upon  it  thou  wilt  look, 
Because  they're  thoughts  and  sentiments  of  mine  ; 

Accept,  sweet  mother,  friend  considerate  and  kind, 
Whose  affection  floweth  unaffected  nor  stilly, 

This  simple  wreath  that  for  thy  brow  is  twined, 
By  thine  own  affectionate  Lilly. 

WABASH  AVENUE,  CHICAGO,  Oct.  29,  1874. 


PATCHWORK-JUVENILE 


LEND  A  HAND. 


WHAT  is  this  world  ?     A  playhouse  that  God  for  man  hath  built, 

And  some  by  fortune  are  favored  more  than  others ; 
Then,  favored  ones,  upon  this  platform  of  woe,  and  want,  and  guilt, 
Oh,  assist  your  struggling,  wayside  brothers ! 

You,  who  on  fortune's  eminence  chance  to  stand, 
Ope  the  heart  and  lend  a  hand. 

Pity  those  who  drink  from  Adversity's  bittered  cup, 

Who  trials  and  troubles  count  by  the  score, 
Oh,  help  to  lift  sad,  despairing  ones  up, 
And  God  and  man  shall  bless  your  store ! 

And  seeing  one  on  the  margin  of  despondency  stand, 
Ope  the  heart  and  lend  a  hand. 

To-day  Fortune  may  smile — to-morrow,  may  frown, 
To-day  we  may  be  hugged  in  Prosperity's  arms ; 
Such  is  life !  while  some  go  up,  others  come  down 
Into  the  midst  of  Misfortune's  alarms, 

Hence,  if  high  on  the  ladder  of  fortune  you  stand, 
Ope  the  heart  and  lend  a  hand. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Then,  in  this  wilderness  of  contention  and  strife, 

Life,  for  all,  might  become  a  bright  dream, 
By  assisting  those  whose  trials  and  struggles  are  rife, 
Those  pulling  hard  'gainst  Adversity's  stream, 

For  those  combating  rough  winds  on  life's  changeful  strand, 
Ope  the  heart  and  lend  a  hand. 


HOPE. 


HOPE  !  Star  to  brighten  the  darkest  day  ; 

Td  guide  us  e'er  o'er  life's  rough  way ; 

To  aid  us  up  the  steepest,  stoniest  hills ; 

To  cheer  the  heart  that  sorrow  fills; 

To  dispel  the  clouds  so  black  and  dense ; 

To  quiet  anxieties  deep,  intense ; 

To  comfort  the  heart  with  a  hidden  care ; 

To  relieve  the  captives  of  dark  despair; 

Then,  beauteous,  golden  Star, 

With  a  radiant  light  that  shineth  afar, 

Still,  when  eyes  shall  close  on  earth's  misty  vision 

Be  our  support  to  life's  bright  Elysium. 


A  FRIEND. 


'Tis  well  to  feel  there's  one  somewhere, 
As  with  life's  struggles  we  contend, 

Who  can  our  joys  and  sorrows  share, 
Whom  we  may  call  a  friend. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Eagerly  we  ope  the  message  white, 
That  its  way  to  us  doth  wend, 

And  read,  with  hearts  so  gay,  so  light, 
The  signature  of  a  friend. 

V 
What  joy  the  fact  when  it  cometh  first, 

What  rapture  doth  it  lend, 
When  the  truth  upon  us  burst, 
That  we've  a  new-found  friend. 


WALKING  IN  THE  SNOW. 


UP  and  down  through  the  busy  street, 
We  hear  the  tread  of  tramping  feet, 
Back  and  forth  we  hear  them  go, 
Crash,  crash,  through  the  frozen  snow. 

Sad  or  merry  the  reverberating  sound, 
Of  the  tread,  tread,  o'er  the  frozen  ground ; 
As  it  carries  one  back  to  the  long-ago, 
Back,  at  the  sound  of  the  creaking  snow. 

Sad  memories  to  some  perchance  it  brings  back, 
From  the  golden  depths  of  a  b£-gone  track, 
Recalling  hopes  that  in  ashes  Be  low, 
Castles  built  in  the  crashing  snpw, 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


That  may  have  fallen  to  dust  on  the  ground 
Hence,  it  may  seem  a  mournful  sound  ; 
It  recalls  the  loved  of  the  long-ago, 
Who  walked  with  us  in  the  beautiful  snow. 

The  stars  glimmer  dimly  over  our  head, 
While  feet  keep  up  their  ceaseless  tread, 
And  the  heavens  with  frosty  sparkles  glow, 
Over  the  crash  of  the  pearly  snow. 

But  sad  or  merry  the  reverberating  sound, 
Of  tread,  tread,  o'er  the  frozen  ground, 
It  carries  one  back  to  the  long-ago, 
Back,  at  the  sound  of  the  crashing  snow. 


LUCY'S  SUMMER  SEASON. 


JUNE'S  glorious  sun  was  pouring  down 

His  fiercest,  blazing  rays, 
When  Lucy  left  the  bustling  town, 

To  spend  the  Summer  days ; 
And  a  crowd  gathered  at  the  close  of  day, 

(For  she  was  daughter  of  a  millionaire,) 
To  bid  farewell,  as  the  Night  Express  bore  away 

The  heiress  rich  and  fair , 
And  she  to<?k  each  proffered  hand, 

But  not  a  tear  she  shed, 
For  they  eyed  the  mansion  grand, 

O'er  poor  Lucy's  head  • 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


No  conscience  was  for  any  pleading, 

She  thought  no  one  the  best ; 
And  while  from  her  native  home  receding, 

She  pictured  the  fair  West. 

Breezy  lake  and  fairy  isle  were  left  behind, 

Hills,  mountains,  vales  passed  by, 
Bright  fancies  sat  in  Lucy's  mind, 

Yet  she  did  not  repress  a  sigh ; 
When  five  days  and  nights  had  fled, 

And  she  neared  her  journey's  end, 
Feelings  of  loneliness  were  not  dead, 

She  wished  she  had  a  friend ; 
But  Lucy  was  unwavering,  and  not  afraid 

To  carry  bravely  through 
The  firm,  well-founded  plans  she'd  laid, 

To  gain  a  love,  unfading,  true  ; 
Aside  were  lain  both  friz  and  curl, 

And  every  pretense  of  fashion, 
And  Lucy  was  a  table-girl, 

In  Col.  Graham's  mansion. 

The  August  sun  had  sunken  in  the  west, 

The  breeze  blew  calm  o'er  lawn  and  lea, 
When  little  Lucy,  weary  for  want  of  rest, 

Sought  her  seat  by  the  garden  tree. 
"  Must  I  to  happiness  bid  farewell  ? 

Ah,  yes,  for  I've  carried  the  ruse  too  far, 
I  can't  revoke  it  now  and  tell, 

And  surely  he'll  love  none  but  Fashion's  star." 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


*'  Lucy,"  'twas  Clifton  Graham's  voice, 

"  Please  not  be  angry  if  I  come, 
Nor — if  I  love  you,  my  heart's  own  choice, 

Don't  tell  me  you  are  poor,  loved  one." 
The  happy  wife  smiles  as  home  friends  tease, 

And  conjecture  more  or  less, 
She  thinks,  let  them  imagine  what  they  please, 

The  secret  they'll  never  guess. 


THINK  OF  ME. 


TO  ANNA  C ,  BOSTON. 

WHEN  round  thee  is  lingering  nothing  but  joy. 
No  vexation  or  aught  to  annoy, 
Only  gentle  gales  sweep  o'er  life's  lea, 
Oh,  then  think  of  me  ! 

When  life  to  thee  is  so  exquisitely  gay, 
And  joys  come  with  each  new-born  day, 
Howe'er  excessive  thy  pleasure  may  be, 
Oh,  then  think  of  me ! 

When  friends  and  fortune  are  smiling, 
And  amusement  thy  leisure  time  is  beguiling, 
While  only  the  blue  of  Fate's  sky  you  see, 
Oh,  then  think  of  me  ! 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Though  the  deep  gulf  of  miles  loom  high  between, 
Before  you  an  eastern,  before  me  a  western,  scene, 
Ah,  walk  sometimes  by  the  beach  methinks  I  see, 
And  there  think  of  me  ! 

But  when  the  hurricanes  of  life  are  dashing  around, 
And  hail-storms  of  strife  fall  thick  on  the  ground, 
When  looking  out  on  Adversity's  vast  sea, 
Oh,  then  think  of  me  ! 

When  storms  of  sorrow  o'er  thee  are  sailing, 
And  brightest  of  joys  before  thee  are  paling, 
When  friendships  are  fast  receding  from  thee, 
Oh,  then  think  of  me  ! 

Where'er  thy  step  in  the  future  may  glide, 
Whether  on  land  or  on  ocean  tide, 
Whether  joys  or  sorrows  dwell  with  thee, 
Oh,  think  sometimes  of  me ! 

Think  of  me  as  one  who  will  ever  befriend, 
And  the  warm  hand  of  friendship  ever  will  lend, 
Whenever  the  smile  of  a  friend  you  would  see, 
Oh,  then  think  of  me ! 


ta  PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS 


ONE  HAD  A  FORTUNE,  THE  OTHER  HAD  NONE. 


GEN.  L.  was  a  peculiar  man,  and  owned  a  fortune  immense 

He  had  his  whims,  alike  he  had  wealth, 
Hence,  he  counted  his  outgoings  by  shillings  and  pence, 

Deeming  economy,  perhaps,  conducive  to  health ; 
But  while  the  shining  god  is  hugged  by  the  old, 

It  seldom  lingers  in  young  people's  sight, 
And  thus  his  two  sons,  and  his  heap  of  gold, 

Perplexed  him  morning  and  night. 

But  the  youngest  ran  away  and  went  to  college, 

Thereby  incurring  the  old  man's  displeasure  ; 
The  other  staid  home  and  dispensed  with  knowledge, 

And  thus  gained  the  coveted  treasure. 
The  old  man  died,  the  attorney  dwelt  on  his  will,  at  length 

It  showed  the  rash,  unwise  act  he  had  done, 
In  his  fading  health,  and  failing  strength, 

For  he'd  left  one  a  fortune,  the  other  had  none. 

The  easy  won  fortune  went  on  the  swiftest  of  wings, 

And  he's  a  poor,  ignorant  man  to-day ; 
The  other  has  a  hard  earned  fortune  that  clings, 

It  came  not  in  a  hurry,  nor  hurries  away. 
A  fortune  were  well,  if  managed  with  prudence  and  care, 

But  if  winds  of  Adversity  o'er  you  are  blown, 
Remember,  e'er  you  sink  down  in  despair, 

One  had  a  fortune,  the  other  had  none. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  13 


ATLANTA. 


ATLANTA  !  fair  city  of  the  sunny  South  ! 
Here,  within  thy  outstretched  arms, 

I've  spent  a  few  brief  hours, 
True,  some  clouds  have  marred  the  charms, 

Within  thy  golden  bowers ; 
Yet,  when  I  hang  the  picture  on  Memory's  wall, 
I'll  choose  the  brightest  side  of  all. 

Atlanta  !  lair  city  of  the  sunny  South  ! 
Shadows,  and  not  all  smiles, 

We  meet  on  life's  boisterous  tide, 
And  out  of  the  dark  and  cloudy  defiles, 

Should  we  single  the  Golden  Side  ? 
Thy  beauties  of  merit  I  would  not  deny, 
And  that  picture  shall  hang  before  my  eye. 

Atlanta  !  fair  city  of  the  sunny  South  ! 

I  this  hasty,  poetic  tribute  bring  to-day, 

And  kindly  offer  thee, 
And  should  Fate  waft  me  again  this  way, 

Wilt  thou  remember  me  ? 
Banish  the  clouds,  and  let  the  sunshine  dwell, 
Atlanta !  as  I  whisper  thee  farewell  ! 


14  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


TO  MY  FORMER  TEACHER. 


MY  Teacher !  instructress  true  of  former  days- 
Remembrance,  in  a  thousand  ways, 

Enfolds  thee  in  her  arms ; 
And  here  in  this  delightful  Southern  bower, 
Memory,  at  this  twilight  hour, 

Recalls  thy  mind's  rare  charms. 

And  from  her  castle  fancies  rally, 

To  picture  a  spot  of  Oriskany's  fair  valley, 

A  sunny,  sloping,  little  glen, 
Where  the  gentle  zephyr  breathes, 
And  Beauty  spreads  her  choice  wreaths, 

Ah,  dear  old  Cottage  Sem ! 

With  many  a  weary  mile  between, 
Many  a  valley  and  mountain  scene, 

Mid  the  Southern  moonlight  beauty, 
Remembrance,  faithful  to  her  trust, 
Tramples  Forgetfulness  in  the  dust, 

And  stands  at  her  post  of  duty. 

Among  the  pictures  on  Memory's  wall, 
O'er  which  the  curtain  of  Time  doth  fall, 

There's  one  fair  little  gem, 
That  brings  many  a  hidden  thought  to  light, 
And  many  a  by-gone  scene  to  sight, 

Ah,  dear  old  Cottage  Sem ! 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  15 


Many  a  month  has  passed  away, 
And  many  a  fair  and  cloudy  day, 

Since  I  left  my  Northern  spil, 
Yet,  o'er  this  golden  crested  clime, 
Where  the  birds  all  winter  chime, 

Must  Friendship's  tendrils  coil. 

Still  how  oft  Memory  speedeth  back, 
To  touch  on  that  familiar  track, 

That  fair  and  shaded  glen, 
Whether  sunshines  or  clouds  are  overhead. 
Fancy  her  brilliant  wings  doth  spread, 

O'er  yonder  Cottage  Sem  ! 


PRESS  ON ! 


INSCRIBED    TO   C.    C.,    BOSTON. 

PRESS  on  !  press  on  !  though  trials  assail, 

Countenance  never  a  word  like  fail, 

Press  on  !  press  on  !  with  courage  three-fold, 

When  Fortune  frowns  and  Fate  looks  cold, 

Though  darkness  appears  to  obscure  all  the  light, 

Look  straight  toward  the  temples  of  Truth  and  Right 

Press  on  !  with  firm  will  and  motives  true, 

For  there's  many  a  prayer  ascends  for  you ; 

Press  on  !  with  a  will  totally  undaunted, 

The  prize  you  seek  shall  sometime  be  granted ; 


16  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Press  on  !  most  noble,  self-sacrificing  soul, 

You  shall  surely  win  that  coveted  goal ; 

Press  on  !  press  on !  nor  let  anything  daunt, 

Not  the  scornful  laugh,  nor  the  jeer,  nor  the  taunt, 

Be  inspired  !  for  round  that  heavenly  seat 

Hath  been  said  shall  the  "  pure  in  heart  "  together  meet. 

Press  on !  mid  Prosperity's  smile  or  Adversity's  fall, 

Remembering  there's  One  who  careth  for  all, 

One  who  our  footsteps  ever  will  guide, 

Then  press  on,  and  turn  not  aside ; 

Storms  may  rise,  temptations  come  fiercer  and  stronger, 

Press  on  !  press  on !  enduring  yet  longer. 

Words  of  cruel  contempt  and  malignant  scorn 

May  deftly  o'er  your  innocent  head  be  borne, 

From  lips  that  no  divine  praises  share, 

Lips  that  discard  sacred  words  of  prayer, 

Still,  press  on !  to  Distrust  a  total  stranger, 

He  will  lead  you  past  every  danger; 

Press  on  !  press  on  !  at  whatever  cost, 

Your  patience  and  labor  shall  not  be  lost, 

You  shall  meet  your  reward,  if  faithful  you've  stood, 

When  the  Saviour  pronounces,  he  "  hath  done  what  he  could." 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  VJ 


WE  DIE  TOGETHER. 


A  GALLANT  ship  sped  o'er  the  deep  blue  sea, 
Swept  along  by  the  swift,  smooth  tide, 

And  the  happiest  one  that  sailed  in  her  glee, 
Was  a  young  and  lovely  bride ; 

And  he  who  had  nobly  won  her  heart  and  hand 

Was  bearing  her  to  his  own  native  land. 

And  ever  and  anon  she  looked  with  laughing  eyes 

Into  that  smiling,  attractive  face, 
Wishing  for  famed  Italy's  sunny  skies, 

His  native  soil,  his  birth-place. 
Onward,  onward,  the  noble  vessel  fleetly  sped, 
While  joy  in  their  hearts  illumination  shed. 

The  stars  shone  with  a  brilliancy  to  inspire, 
And  all  were  securely  locked  in  slumber, 

When  the  knell  like  cry  of  fire  !  fire  ! 
Startled  the  sleeping  number; 

Hoarse  shouts  rose  'mid  the  sickening  gloom, 

The  watery  waves  must  be  their  doom  ! 

But  no !  a  manly  spirit  the  sailors  cherish, 
Though  hands  with  blood  be  laved, 

The  women  shall  not  be  let  to  perish, 
But  they  can  alone  be  saved. 

Husbands,  fathers,  in  the  flames  must  die, 

And  they  bid  the  weeping  ones  good-bye. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


"Quick !"  the  captain  says,  with  extended  hands, 
And  beckons  to  the  youthful  bride : 

But  undaunted  and  firm  she  stands 
By  her  valiant  husband's  side. 

"  Nothing  our  hands  of  love  shall  sever, 
If  die  we  must,  we'll  die  together." 

The  ship  went  down  beneath  the  billowy  wave, 
Perished  in  the  volume  of  fiery  flames, 

And  'mong  those  who  found  an  ocean  grave 
Were  those  two  world-bright  names. 

May  those  sweet  words  float  on,  on  forever, 

"If  die  we  musf,  we'll  die  together." 


THE   FLOWER  GIFT. 


MID  the  future  years  that  come  and  go, 
The  fair  or  clouded  hours, 

Memory  oft  her  doors  ajar  shall  throw, 
To  admit  these  beauteous  flowers ; 

Gratitude  doth  her  fairest  hand  uplift, 

To  thank  you  for  this  floral  gift. 

ANDERSON,  S.  C.,  April  18,  1874 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  19 


THE  HEART'S  OWN  STORY. 


A  GAY,  joyous  laugh  and  a  bright,  winning  smile, 

A  countenance  beaming  with  mirth, 
And  the  motley  world  is  opining  the  while : 

"  He's  the  happiest  being  on  earth." 
They  see  his  fair  fame,  with  fortune  he's  blest, 
But  ah,  the  heart  knoweth  its  own  story  best ! 

The  laugh  may  be  forced,  the  smile  be  assumed, 
The  mirth,  a  mask  of  deepest  disguise, 

And  dark  wells  of  sorrow  are  often  illumed, 
By  an  artful  dissembling  of  eyes ; 

And  the  world  fancies  Joy  where  Despair  is  a  guest, 

For  ah,  the  heart  knoweth  its  own  story  best ! 

On  a  wintry  day  when  the  sun  shines  bright, 

We  think,  what  delightful  weather  ! 
And  wonder  people  are  bundled  so  tight, 

And  pulling  their  mufflers  together; 
But  we  feel  not  the  cold  that's  piercing  their  breast 
For  ah,  the  heart  knoweth  its  own  story  best ! 

The  smile-wreathed  face  is  oftimes  the  saddest, 
Gay  corsage  may  flaunt  o'er  a  bleeding  heart, 

The  brain  with  grief  is  oftimes  the  maddest, 
As  it  some  sparkling  witticism  impart ; 

No  one  may  judge  by  the  fairest  test, 

For  ah,  the  heart  knoweth  its  own  story  best ! 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


ON  VISITING  MT.  AUBURN  CEMETERY. 


WE  step  beneath  the  iron  archway  overhead, 

And  enter  the  silent  city  of  the  dead 

Here,  stretching  out  before  the  eye, 

More  than  a  hundred  acres  lie  ; 

Forming  a  home  for  those  once  gay, 

Whose  prosperous  lives  have  passed  away. 

Up  Central  Avenue,  pausing  by  a  statued  grave, 

Then  on  to  the  chapel  erected  for  the  brave, 

Casting  on  this  a  greeting  and  farewell, 

Thro'  Ivy  and  Geranium  paths,  on  to  Hazel  Dell ; 

Here  a  bubbling  fountain  by  night  and  day 

Tosses  its  wreaths  of  foam-white  spray, 

Its  silvery  particles  into  a  misty  vapor  rise, 

Like  a  gorgeous  bridal  veil  before  the  eyes. 

But  we  leave  it  playing  in  its  mystic  power, 

And,  passing  on,  behold  the  lofty  tower, 

And  climbing  to  the  observatory  looming  high, 

Distant  landscapes  can  we  descry — 

But  hark !  like  a  solemn,  deep  toned  knell, 

Falls  the  stroke  of  the  warning  bell.* 

BOSTON,  4  P.  M.,  Sept.  17,  1873. 


*  At  4  P.  M.  the  bell  in  the  tower  strikes  to  warn  visitors  to  leave  the  enclo- 
sures. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  SI 


A  MOTHER  IN  HEAVEN. 


OH  !  who  wittingly  can  wander  from  the  narrow  way? 
Who  can  perversely  go  toward  Ruin's  brink  so  gray, 
Base  passions,  impure  precepts,  to  obey ;       , 
Who  has  in  Heaven  a  mother? 

Oh !  who  can  willfully  drink  the  cup  of  sin, 
Strive  Earth's  empty  bubbles  to  catch,  to  win, 
Form  a  character  transparent,  dark,  and  thin, 
Who  has  in  Heaven  a  mother? 

Ah  !  who  can  deliberately  walk  on  Satan's  brink, 
And  calmly  of  his  impious  poison  drink  ? 
Who  can  rush  on,  nor  stop  to  think, 

Who  has  in  Heaven  a  mother  ? 


NOT  TOTALLY  LOST. 


Response  to  a  poem  entitled  "  Am  I  Totally  Lostl" 

THO'  from  the  beaten  path,  perchance,  you  have  strayed, 
And  pictures  with  dark  spots  in  Memory  are  laid, 

Pictures  that  truth  and  honor  have  cost, 
Turn  back,  nor  think  you  must  meet  a  deplorable  end, 
As  a  matter  of  course,  for  there's  still  time  to  mend, 

And  you  are  not  totally  lost. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Do  friends  spurn  you  and  contumely  pass  by, 
Does  there  seem  no  pardon  from  even  on  High ; 

If  in  shipwrecks  of  doubt  you  are  tost, 
The  past  missteps  may  not  be  obliterated,  'tis  true, 
But  redeemed  with  regrets,  and  pure  aims  in  view, 

For  you  are  not  totally  lost. 

i 
Sink  not  in  despair,  let  not  hope  nor  courage  forsake 

There  are  few  in  life  who  make  no  mistake, 

Some  less  temptations  accost ; 
Despair  only  need  come  when  remedies  are  ended, 
Never  for  fractures  that  still  may  be  mended, 

And  you  are  not  totally  lost. 

If  rash  acts  have  made  you  outcast  and  forlorn, 
The  evening  is  dark,  and  darker  the  morn, 

Showers  of  acrimony  o'er  you  are  tost ; 
All  need  a  draught  from  the  sin-forgiving-cup, 
Instead  of  sinking  lower,  strive  to  rise  up, 

For  you  are  not  totally  lost. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  a? 


ACROSTIC. 


EVER  within  my  heart,  sweet,  precious  Mother, 
Lieth  one  surging  thought,  above  all  other, 
Its  spontaneous  gushing  thou  need'st  not  doubt, 
Zechin  could  never,  ah,  never,  drive  it  out ; 
Around  each  tendril  its  clinging  fibres  clasp, 
Bound  firmly,  as  with  an  iron  grasp, 
Ever,  more  firmly \  shall  they  twine, 
There,  sweet  Mother,  shall  they  shine, 
Here  let  me  say  that  thought  is  thine. 

Care,  born  of  misfortune,  its  way  may  wend, 
Under  it  all  behold  in  me  a  friend ; 
Rough  brambles  may  our  pathway  fill, 
'Twill  but  inspire  one  who  loves  you  still, 
In  every  vicissitude  believe  me  dutiful, 
Sweet  Mamma,  staunch  friend  and  truthful. 
CHICAGO,  Nov.  3,  1874. 

A  BRIDE  TO  HER  HUSBAND. 


WRITTEN    FOR    MISS    MARY    B- 


Now,  confidingly  I  place  my  hand  in  thine, 
(May  it  be  a  helping  hand,) 
And  pledge  myself  by  thee  to  stand, 

Whether  clouds  are  dark  or  the  sun  does  shine ; 

So  thou  art  e'er  unfaltering  true  to  me, 

Fidelity's  hand  shall  ne'er  be  withdrawn  from  thee. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


My  cup  of  joy  seems  full  to  overflowing, 

Yet  may  I  see  sorrow  and  tears, 

But  alike  in  all  the  coming  years, 
In  love  and  patience  will  I  be  growing ; 
Of  this  I  dream  while  standing  by  thy  protecting  side, 
To  welcome  joy  and  love,  who  crown  me  as  a  bride. 


I  feel  the  pressure  of  thy  encircling  arm, 

May  that  same,  through  the  tempests  of  life, 
When  storms  of  adversity  are  rife, 

Be  a  shield  mid  fierce  peril's  alarm  ; 

Trials  can  I  bear  for  they  e'er  must  accrue, 

But  woe  to  thee,  if  thou  shouldst  e'er  prove  untrue. 


Love's  links  are  closely  bound  together, 
So  securely  they  might  last  for  aye, 
But  should  the  cement  prove  nought  but  clay, 

They'd  break,  and,  breaking,  break  forever ! 

By  faith  and  education  I  stand  your  equal, 

We  may  be  happy — time  must  tell  the  sequel. 


From  no  olden  ties  have  I  to  part, 

For  no  one  living,  or  in  the  grave  sleeping, 
Ever  held  a  place  within  the  heart, 

Which  now  I  place  in  thy  keeping ; 

And  still  I'll  not  exact  as  much  from  thee, 

Be  it  but  a  whole  heart  thou  giv'st  to  me. 


PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  25 


But  time  will  change  the  face  now  fair, 

And  she  who  stands  where  praises  glide 
To  crown  the  head  of  a  youthful  bride, 

Will  a  look  of  wan  dejection  wear ; 

And  furrows  will  sit  on  this  unwrinkled  brow, 

Say,  wilt  thou  love  me  then  as  now  ? 

True,  no  dark  forebodings  by  doubt  are  pressed, 
There's  no  feeling  not  joyous  and  free, 
Of  perfect  love  and  trust  in  thee, 

There's  no  lurking  twinges  of  unrest, 

For  guardian  spirits  that  round  us  be, 

Seem  whispering  "  your  bridal  sure  is  blest." 

Yet  time  works  changes  we  little  reck, 
Circumstances  make  a  friend  a  foe ; 
Lay  our  highest  hopes  in  ashes  low ; 

Destroy  the  castles  that  Faith  may  deck  ; 

Still,  Faith  sails  on  reliant  golden  wings, 

And  Truth  and  Honor  can  do  great  things. 

In  the  light  of  God  our  voyage  we'll  begin  together, 
May  He  lead  us  o'er  life's  surging  tide 
Thus  may  we  cross  to  the  other  side, 
Having  known  Distrust's  dark  cloud,  ah,  never , 
And  wake  to  know  that,  tho'  we  have  failed, 
Our  sacred  vows  have  not  been  assailed. 


26  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


TO  AN  OLD  SHOE. 


I  WAS  having  a  regular  rummaging  to-day, 
And  there  I  found  it  stowed  away, 

And  brought  it  from  its  corner ; 
Ah,  yes !  shoe,  though  worn  and  old, 
Once  to  feet  merry  and  slightly  bold, 

You  served  as  an  adorner. 

Well,  part  of  you  is  gone,  'tis  true, 
And  she  is  gone  who  wore  you ; 

But  I'm  going  to  stand  you  there, 
And  gaze  upon  you  as  I  choose — 
No,  but  you  needn't  now  refuse, 

Because  you  look  not  fair. 

The  day  was  bright  and  Nature  smiled, 
When  I  stood  with  her,  the  darling  child, 

Near  the  spot  I  found  you  ; 
She  shook  her  tresses  of  bronzy  gold, 
Her  foot  peeped  from  the  merino's  fold 

Then,  you  were  new,  old  shoe. 

What  a  lovely  pair  of  shoes,  I  said, 
And  absently  she  bowed  her  head, 

Crowned  with  its  golden  glory ; 
How  happy,  Leilia,  you  must  be,  said  I ; 
And  then  she  drew  a  long,  deep  sigh, 

The  signal  of  a  story. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  27 


But  why  repeat  the  story  of  those  lips  ? 
Too  well  'tis  known  that  Wealth  oft  sits 

With  scepter  that  naught  but  frowns  dispatch ; 
She  smiled  on  Love,  tho'  it  was  poor, 
And  forbade  to  enter  the  carved  door, 

Wealth  with  Poverty  could  not  match. 

Rapidly  my  heart  began  to  flutter, 

Not  a  word  my  feeble  tongue  could  utter, 

As  a  drop  of  healing  water ; 
That  she  so  sad  a  story  should  tell, 
Who  was  both  beauty  and  belle, 

A  millionaire's  only  daughter. 

Love  conquered  that  time — ah,  well ! 

But  'tis  the  saddest  of  sad,  sad  stories  to  tell, 

For  elopements  bring  little  but  woe  ; 
They  would  go  o'er  the  water;  her  father  sometime — 
Ah !  would  repent — it  sunk,  the  White  Star  line, 

And  a  curtain  o'er  the  scene  we  throw. 

I'll  endite  a  rhyme — the  simplest  thing — 
Just  to  tell  what  sorrow  elopements  bring, 

Though  Love  be  ever  so  true  ; 
That  you  may  accomplish  some  good  to-day, 
Ere  I  lay  you  forever  away, 

Away  with  the  past,  old  shoe. 


28  PATCH  WORK—  JUVENILE  POEMS. 


LINES  TO  MY  MUSIC  TEACHER. 


WITH  gaze  uj  on  the  future's  paths,  mystic  and  uncertain, 
I  turn  one  thought  adown  the  vista  of  the  past, 

And  Memory  lifts  her  fair,  informal  curtain, 
With  radiant  raptures  all  o'ercasty 

For  she  toucheth  on  many  a  scene  in  her  sacred  bower, 

And  combines  th^m  all  in  this  parting  hour. 

The  cheerful  conversation  and  favorite  book's  kind  loan, 

The  deftly  copied  music  in  my  hand, 
What  for  these  memories  can  e'er  atone, 

Though  on  endearing  spots  I  stand  ?  •";,'•• 

And  wait,  there's  still  something  I  would  not  retrench, 
While  we  cannot  speak,  we  yet  may  write  in  French. 

Each  fond  scene,  as  from  day  day  to  day  we've  met, 

Is  woven  with  ties  Friendship  engraves, 
And  Memory  her  brightest  star  hath  set, 

Where  their  united  banner  waves  ; 
What  charms  association  benignly  lends, 
We  met  as  strangers — we  part  as  friends. 

The  lessons  of  the  term  they  all  are  past, 

And  we  meet  with  saddened  heart, 
And  though  with  joy,  still  with  regrets  o'ercast, 

For  we  meet,  alas,  to  part ; 

And  we  know,  peering  toward  Uncertainty's  mystic  shore, 
As  teacher  and  pupil,  we  may  meet  no  more. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  29 


Together  we've  gleaned  instruction  for  the  mind, 

And  many  an  invention  planned, 
And  links  were  formed  that  our  heart-strings  bind, 

While  the  depths  of  investigation  we  planned  : 
Recollections  that  Memory  e'er  must  cherish, 
That  her  warm  clasp  will  ne'er  let  perish. 

In  all  the  future  hours,  oh,  forget  me  tiot, 

Still  hold  my  memory  dear, 
For  tho'  roaming  o'er  a  distant  and  charmed  spot, 

In  imagination,  I  shall  meet  you  here ; 
'Tis  courage  now  that  I  strive  to  muster, 
As  I  leave  the  spot  round  which  fond  associations  cluster. 

And  Conscience  opes  her  magic  eyes  awide, 

And  bids  me  thank  you,  o'er  and  o'er, 
For  modest  Patience's  perpetual  glide 

From  her  purest,  choicest  store  ; 
While  music  itself  was  to  you  a  treat, 
I  fretted  o'er  each  new  turned  sheet. 

And  when  the  heart  would  its  troubles  borrow, 

You  spoke  words  of  comfort  still, 
Pointed  me  to  the  bright  to-morrow, 

Through  Hope's  gentle  rill ; 

By  your  sympathetic  words,  and  smile  as  bright  as  sun, 
The  heart's  pure  offering  you  have  won. 

Looking  out  on  the  boundless  ocean  of  life, 

Where  constantly  before  the  eye, 
Joyous  pantomine  scenes  of  the  past  are  rife, 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Lips  decline  to  say  good-bye  ; 
Though  friends  I  find  worthy  of  my  selection, 
Keep  me,  I  ask,  e'er  in  your  affection. 

The  heart  feels  what  lips  refuse  to  speak, 

Unspoken  volumes  hath  the  eye, 
The  tongue  itself  is  childish,  weak, 

For  it  trembles  o'er  good-bye  ; 
If  on  earth  we  chance  no  more  to  meet. 
May  we  walk  one  day  Jerusalem's  golden  street. 

We  part,  but  though  wide  apart  our  paths  are  lain, 

We'll  still  be  one  in  aim  and  in  desire, 
The  link  of  friendship  binds,  a  Saviour  holds  the  chain, 

He  holds  the  harp,  the  well-tuned  lyre  ; 
We  part  with  swelling  heart  and  tear  dimmed  eye, 
But  God  is  smiling  o'er  this  good-bye ! 

Accept  my  gratitude  and  adieus,  though  unspoken, 

Anticipate  what  faltering  lips  deny, 
Which  means,  linked  with  Friendship's  fairest  token, 

My  teacher,  friend,  good-bye  ! 
And  when  life,  with  its  vicissitudes,  is  o'er, 
May  we  meet  again  where  parting  is  no  more. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  31 


FRIENDSHIP. 


FRIENDSHIP  !  how  boundless  and  expansive  is  the  term, 
Leading  thro'  labyrinths — ah  !   'tis  a  priceless  germ. 

Friendship  !  ah,  it  may  look  from  many  a  smiling  eye, 
When  bright  life's  sunshine  and  clear  the  sky. 

But  when  the  storms  of  adversity  round  us  are  pressed, 
Then  is  the  time  for  friendship's  true  test. 

When  the  dark  waves  of  trouble  are  surging  around, 
Then  may  the  rare  gem  of  friendship  be  found. 

One  by  one  the  false  gildings  will  all  fall  away, 
While  the  pure  and  unfading  jewel  alone  will  stay. 

The  genuine  gem  of  friendship  how  little  we  know, 
Till  the  fierce  winds  of  trial  and  misfortune  blow. 

If  found  by  the  stranger  afar  from  lov'd  native  soil, 
O'er  fond  Memory's  bower  should  its  tendrils  coil. 

WILMINGTON,  N.  C. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


A  SCENE  FROM  THE  WINDOW. 


A  RARE  and  laudable  incident  hath  just  met  mine  eye, 
Would  that  such,  though  trifling,  were  not  so  rare, 

Were  they  not,  bluer  far  would  be  life's  sky, 
And  its  labyrinthine  paths  more  fair  : 

A  humane  kindness  or  trifling  courtesy  that  all  might  show, 

From  the  highest  of  life's  walks  to  the  lowest  of  the  low. 

If  the  latter,  excuses  should  partially  exempt ; 

The  former,  what  plea  shall  we  present  for  them 
Who  ostentatiously,  with  lofty  air,  attempt 

The  current  of  worldly  wrongs  to  stem  ? 
But  in  unstudied  kindness,  void  of  outward  guise, 
An  inborn  grace,  a  natural  loveliness,  lies. 

The  rain  was  drizzling  slowly,  and  Nature  wore  a  frown, 
A  little  lad  moved  aimlessly  along  the  vacant  street, 

A.  wagon,  rolling  swiftly  out  of  town, 
The  little  fellow  joyfully  ran  to  meet, 

And  ask  the  sun-brown  driver  for  a  bit  of  ride ; 

Kindly  he  stopped,  and  placed  him  at  his  side. 

There  was  no  repulsion  to  wound  his  tender  heart, 

No  angry  gesture  and  sour  look ; 
Would  the  world  at  large  such  kindly  acts  impart, 

Easier  were  read  the  pages  of  life's  complicated  book. 
And  will  not  each  trifle  be  entered  on  those  pages, 
To  be  undimmed  throughout  the  endless  ages  ? 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  33 


LINES  TO  LITTLE  LEONARD. 


THE  vesper  hour  of  service  o'er, 
You  clasp  my  hand  at  the  Chapel  door, 
Child  of  Innocence's  purest  store, 
How  warm  a  clasp  and  true  ! 
The  tempests  that  o'er  my  life  have  blown, 
Have  ne'er  round  you  been  thrown, 
For  'tis  petty  trials,  I'm  sure,  alone, 
That  have  dared  to  stare  at  you. 

And  I  know,  whate'er  the  world  may  say, 
That  loving  hand  will  ne'er  betray 
The  one  that  leads  it  o'er  the  way ; 

And  nothing,  I  know,  will  change 
The  childish  thoughts  which  you  express, 
The  truthful  words  which  you  confess, 
The  innocent  love  which  you  profess, 

Nor  e'er  our  hearts  estrange. 

A  child,  and  therefore'll  prove  true, 
Through  the  closest  test,  the  strictest  view, 
I  e'er  might  dare  to  look  to  you 

For  friendship  of  the  heart ; 
And  tho'  but  confessions  of  a  child, 
Gentle,  loving,  pure  and  mild, 
Better  than  professions  excited,  wild, 

And  by  a  trifle  rent  apart. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


OVER  THE  SEA. 


WRITTEN   FOR    MISS   S . 

MY  heart  is  restful,  and  I  long  to  go  far  out,  and  over  the  sea,  you 

know, 

To  go,  to  go,  is  all  I  care,  for,  ah,  my  true  love  dwelleth  there ; 
Summer's  just  shedding  a  parting  tear,  beck'ning  Autumn  to  draw 

near, 
And  ere  she  steppeth  from  the  strand,  I  may  view  Italy's  sunny 

land, 
And  I  may  turn  my  eyes    on  the  beauties  of  France's   golden 

skies, 

But,  oh,  may  I  gaze,  above  the  rest,  on  fair  Germany  as  the  best, 
For  wasn't  the  darling  of  my  affection  born  within  her  warm 

protection? 

As  on  that  far-famed  soil  I  stand,  may  I  learn  to  love  that  win- 
ning land : 
Thoughts  rush  together,  and  all  agree,  to  light  on  one  far  o'er  the 

sea. 


WHEN  I  WAS  NELLIE  LANE. 


MY  heart  was  light  from  morn  till  night, 

Ne'er  a  thought  of  care  had  I, 
Fair  was  the  cloudiest  day,  and  every  month  a  May, 

E'en  bleak  December's  sigh. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  35 


Ah,  shall  I  tell  it  you  ?     I  had  a  lover  true, 

But  he  owned  no  costly  mansion ; 
There,  for  Nellie  Lane,  must  be  a  wide  domain, 

Grand  and  broad  in  its  expansion  : 
So  Lord  Delney  asked  my  hand,  and  calmly  I  did  stand, 

And  sell  my  heart  for  gold ; 
Oft,  with  anxious  pain,  I  wish  myself  Nellie  Lane, 

With  bitterness  quite  untold. 


SERENITY. 


BE  not  with  grief  or  joy  o'ercome, 
'Tis  a  transient  thing  at  best ; 

Not  till  this  life's  work  is  done, 
Shall  we  find  enduring  rest. 


PLYMOUTH  ROCK. 


WITH  reverent  step  I  approach  the  old  historic  rock 

On  which,  one  day,  in  years  gone  by, 
The  Mayflower  band,  the  Pilgrim  flock, 

Sat  with  a  weary,  downcast  eye, 
And  thoughts,  in  a  chaos,  running  o'er  and  o'er, 
For  they  were  on  a  strange,  a  foreign  shore. 


36  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Then,  in  that  distant,  but  to  them  decisive,  hour, 

They  stepped  on  this  teeming  land, 
Their  ship  the  first,  the  old  Mayflower, 

That  touched  this  fruitful  strand  ; 
They  stood  on  an  unexplored  but  verdant  soil, 
With  hands  for  labor  and  for  toil. 

Carver,  with  his  many  a  fair  and  wavy  lock, 

And  Standish,  with  such  powerful  zest, 
Sat  them  down  on  this  seashore  rock, 

Awhile  to  plan  and  rest; 

While  Somerset,  the  Indian  Chief,  advanced — half  bent,- 
To  see  the  angels  from  heaven  sent ! 

Cautiously  and  with  scrutiny  he  advances, 

To  gaze  on  the  strange,  wild  scene, 
Penetrating  are  the  swift  and  many  glances, 

While  his  searching  eyes  with  wonder  gleam  ; 
He  little  knew,  standing  with  gestured  hand, 
How  soon  the  dark  race  must  leave  their  native  land ! 

O'er  the  rock,  round  which  they  met  that  day, 

A  canopy  now  is  looming  high, 
And  the  wild,  dark  race  has  been  swept  away, 

As  an  act  of  the  long  gone-by ; 
Yet  there  remains  a  portion  of  the  old,  mystic  rock, 
Where  rested  the  Mayflower  band,  the  Pilgrim  flock. 

PLYMOUTH,  MASS.,  August,  1873. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


LINES  TO  FRIENDS. 


MY  visit  is  o'er,  still  Memory  one  lingering  glance  awaken, 

Mingled  with  a  coterie  of  joyous  thought, 
O'er  the  various  walks  and  rides  we've  taken, 

And  the  happy  hours  they've  brought ; 
Aud  if  I  have  urged  you  from  your  way, 

Or  taxed  your  patience  sore, 
Remember,  and  trouble  me  some  day, 

Full  as  much,  or  more ; 

This  visit's  scenes  fond  thoughts  must  cluster  round, 
And  e'er  with  fair  memorial  wreaths  be  crown 'd. 

One  last  fond  glance  around  the  hill-side  spot, 

Wreathed  with  gems  from  Nature's  dell, 
Methinks  the  breezes  sigh,  we'll  forget  you  not, 

As  I  whisper  them  farewell ; 
And  around  this  beauteous  landscape  fair, 

Fondest  memories  will  ever  cling, 
The  Mohawk's  murmur  through  the  air 

That  reached  me  in  the  swing. 

Ere  I  come  again,  how  many  seasons  shall  cycle  round, 
Or  shall  I  ever  step  on  this  delightful  ground  ? 

Truant  Memory  threads  the  mazes  of  the  past, 

The  time  when  I  was  here  before ; 
She  pauses  beside  a  grave,  at  last, 

With  grass  and  hedges  growing  o'er : 


38  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


And  there,  weaving  golden  links,  she's  busy ; 

Though  no  stone  bears  the  name, 
She  knows  the  sleeper  there  was  Lizzie,* 

Unknown  in  streets  of  Fortune,  or  road  to  Fame. 
"  Come  and  see  me,"  was  mingled  with  her  last  good-bye, 

I've  been  to  see  thee,  Lizzie,  where  thou  lie. 

O'er  the  picture,  an  artist's  brush  would  fail : 

The  tones  of  the  Sabbath  bell  upon  my  ear, 
Above,  the  tiniest  cloud's  white  sail, 

The  Weeping  Willow  drooping  near  ; 
A  scene  worthy  of  deep  thanksgiving ; 

I  sat  beside  her  lowly  bed, 
And  heard  the  voices  of  the  living, 

While  I  mingled  with  the  dead. 
So  mysterious  our  fleeting,  uncertain  breath, 
We,  too,  should  be  prepared  for  death. 

Swiftly  circles  Time's  wierd,  eventful  tide, 

By  mansion,  grand,  and  cottage,  plain, 
And  to  the  bright  home  upon  the  hill-side, 

May  come  changes  of  joy  or  pain ; 
But  list !  through  rippling  breezes  of  the  air, 

Oft  when  the  day  is  done, 
The  lingering  accents  of  a  prayer, 

My  friends,  for  you  will  come  ; 
And  Fancy,  I  oft  shall  wing  her  hither, 

To  see  if  one  memorial  bough  shalt  wither. 

*  Lizzie  was  a  lovely  young  woman  who  sometimes  made  it  her  home  with  my 
friends. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


And  Imagination,  ah,  yes,  shall  oft  meander 

Back  to  these  endearing  haunts, 
To  picture  you  o'er  the  fuchsia  and  oleander, 

And  other  cherished  plants ; 
But  oftener,  o'er  childhood's  human  flower, 

Watching  its  progress  from  day  to  day, 
Pointing  it  toward  yon  heavenly  bower, 

O'er  the  straight  and  narrow  way. 
Good-bye,  and  believe  that  my  purest  wishes  lie, 
Interwoven  with  that  word,  good-bye  ! 


MEETINGS  AND  PARTINGS. 


IN  the  depot,  or  the  railway  car,  perchance, 

Or  mayhap  in  the  crowded  street, 
Tis  like  a  rare  poem,  or  a  thrilling  romance, 

Thousands  as  strangers  meet : 
An  hour,  a  week,  a  month  flits  by, 

And  round  each  pulsing  heart 
Friendship  has  bonnd  a  golden  tie, 

When  they  are  called,  alas,  to  part. 
Yes,  they  who  unfamiliar  strangers  met 

Are  called  to  part  in  tears, 
While  Memory  has  her  signet  set, 

To  shine  in  future  years. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Little  know  we,  standing  on  Uncertainty's  threshold  vast, 

Whom  we  may  meet  to  love,  part  with  to  meet  no  more, 
As  turning  an  eye  down  the  vestibule  of  the  past, 

We  launch  our  barque  on  Fate's  mystic  shore. 
Methinks  that  the  saddest  of  life's  sad,  sad  things 

Is  to  meet  to  love,  and  when  a  brief  space  is  o'er, 
And  limited  hours  have  fled  on  arrowy  wings, 

To  part,  to  meet  on  earth  no  more !  no  more ! 
Friends,  near  and  dear  to  us  as  our  own  connection, 

We  tearfully  press  to  our  throbbing  heart, 
Sadly  twine  o'er  them  the  wreath  of  fond  affection, 

For  we  have  met,  alas,  to  part ! 

But  such  is  this  changeful  world  of  ours, 

That  bitter  close  to  sweet  must  cling, 
As  December's  snows  and  May's  warm  showers 

The  varied  seasons  bring ; 
And  in  this  world,  spacious  and  so  wide, 

Some  firm,  staunch  friends  we  find, 
But  are  hurried  swiftly  along  the  tide, 

To  leave  them  soon  behind. 
Yet  oft  we  weave  ties  not  easily  broken, 

Though  sundered  for  aye  apart, 
And  we  cherish  each  word  and  token, 

They've  won  a  place  within  the  heart ; 
And  when  o'er  life's  last  refulgent  ray, 

May  we  meet  around  that  Throne, 
Meet  to  spend  a  long,  perennial  day, 

Meet  where  parting  is  unknown. 


^A  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  FRANK  CURRIER. 


INSCRIBED  TO  MRS.  CURRIER,  BOSTON. 

THOUGH  there's  a  vacant  place  in  thy  household  now, 

And  a  look  of  sadness  sits  on  thy  brow, 

And  each  day  drags  and  is  hard  to  measure, 

Since  parting  with  thy  favorite  and  earthly  treasure. 

While  thou  unconsoled  still  weepelh  for  him, 

Jesus  hath  welcomed  the  lost,  loved  one  in. 

From  this  world  so  cruel,  bitter  and  cold, 

Hath  brought  him  into  the  Shepherd's  fold. 


Free  from  treacherous  life's  fierce  alarms, 
Think  of  him  safe  in  the  Savior's  arms, 
While  wan  grief  haunts  your  once  quiet  pillow, 
He  knoweth  sin  nor  sorrow's  surging  billow ; 
When  you  have  passed  life's  turbulent  helms, 
He  awaits  you  in  those  radiant  realms ; 
In  that  peaceful  land  all  free  from  care, 
Father,  mother,  brother,  sister,  he  awaits  you  there. 

Called  in  the  spring-time,  the  morning  of  life, 
To  step  from  the  waves  of  trouble  and  strife, 
Where  no  more  he  shall  hear  sin's  dark  waters  roar, 
To  rest  for  aye  on  a  brighter  shore ; 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Pain  cometh  not  there,  nor  grief's  bitter  tear, 
Blest  thy  lost  one,  loved  and  so  dear ; 
The  May-day  life  that  bid  so  brightly  to  bloom 
Shall  blossom  more  brightly  beyond  the  tomb. 

Gone  in  the  innocent  morning  of  youth, 

Bearing  the  shield  of  purity  and  truth ; 

Gone  from  life's  steep  hills  and  bramble-filled  track, 

And  would  you  to-day  wish  him  back  ? 

Though  he  has  left  your  fond,  loving  side, 

'Tis  but  to  cross  the  bright,  silvery  tide ; 

And  in  that  world  where  all  is  so  fair, 

Dear  friends,  know,  he  awaits  you  there. 


PARTING  LINES. 


WE  met,  floating  on  life's  e'er  changeful  tide, 

We  met  and  some  bright  moments  spent  together ; 

When  lo !  the  step  of  Parting  glideth  to  our  side, 
And  our  paths  diverge,  perhaps,  forever ! 

Fickle  and  unstable  is  the  barque  of  life, 
Round  which  fierce  and  stormy  billows  rage, 

But  while  wrestling  with  the  waves  of  strife, 
Will  there  e'er  rest  our  memory's  page. 

Will  e'er  rest  there  at  morn  or  twilight  hour, 
The  name  of  her  you  knew  so  short  a  time? 

And  will  e'er  a  finger  from  friendship's  bower, 
Point  towards  a  form  like  mine  ? 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  43 


Fateful  and  mystical  are  our  varied  days, 

Interspersed  with  many  a  weird,  fantastic  scene, 

And  oft  we  meet  events  on  our  destined  ways, 
That  seem  like  some  vague  dream. 

But  let  me  ask  this  much  of  you, 

Be  our  meeting  recalled  in  a  similar  light, 

When  sometimes  it  shall  rise  to  view, 
Oh,  may  that  dream  be  bright ! 

Oh  !   ple-ase  to  count  the  moments  all  together> 

Henceforth  an  oasis  of  the  Past ; 
And  though  the  hand  of  Parting  now  sever, 

May  their  memory  always  last. 

Here  'mid  the  perfume  of  blooming  flowers, 
Beneath  this  genial  and  sunny  clime, 

Within  these  inviting  Southern  bowers, 
We  met,  we  part  for  time. 

Let  one  sad  tho't  with  this  parting  moment  blend, 

Though  seasons  come  and  go, 
Remember,  this  is  the  hour,  my  friend, 

We  part,  to  meet  no  more  below. 

Though  this  city  you  may  not  admire, 

Still  that  on  memory's  sheet 
You'll  place  one  spot  is  my  desire  : 

'Tis  Second  and  Market  street. 


44  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


And  should  you,  in  future  years,  pass  by, 

With  friends  so  prized  and  dear, 
Turn  thither  to  this  spot  an  eye, 

Dimmed  by  a  falling  tear. 

And  when  back  to  your  Northern  home  you  go, 
Back  to  your  native  landscapes  fair, 

Let  Memory  wide  her  bright  arms  throw, 
Me  in  their  embrace  to  bear. 

My  friend,  I  wish  for  you  that  Joy  may  prove 

Abundant  in  her  blessings  rare, 
That  she  may  give  you  happiness  and  love, 

Unmixed  with  toil  and  care. 

# 

Or  if  that  could  not  be  and  she  should  send 

Trials  and  privations  unto  you, 
May  kind  Providence  a  heavenly  influence  lend, 

To  waft  you  bravely,  nobly  through. 

A  silent  handclasp,  and  all  is  o'er, 

Henceforth,  apart  we'll  dwell, 
Just  as  we  part  to  meet  no  more, 

Accept  my  final,  yea,  last  farewell. 

WILMINGTON,  N.  C.,  Feb.,  1874. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  45 


SILVER  WEDDING  VERSES. 


OYS  almost  unclouded  seem  showered  from  above, 

While  a  Century  strikes  her  quarter  hour, 
fo  recall  that  moment  when  young  and  trusting  Love, 

Opened  the  door  of  his  fair,  celestial  bower, 
Lnd  bade  up  his  beauteous  isle,  with  sacred  anthems,  glide, 
^  true,  devoted  lover,  a  fair  and  youthful  bride  ; 
^.nd  the  days  that  have  so  swiftly  and  so  gayly  flown  away, 

Show  that  Love's  bright  bower  has  been  kept  with  care, 
fhat  the  light  of  each  other's  life  has  gilded  each  new-born  day, 

And  naught  but  mutual  harmony  has  been  permitted  there  ; 
Phe  sympathy  and  kindly  counsel  ready  e'er  to  lend, 
Suffice  domestic  wants  minus  assistance  of  a  "  Mutual  Friend." 

^  Century  strikes  her  quarter  hour  to  memorize  that  day, 

When,  with  stars  of  Faith  o'erhead,  up  affection's  blissful  isle 
ifou  passed,  with  hearts  their  trust  should  ne'er  betray, 

And  vows  issued  from  lips  wreathed  with  a  smile ; 
iVell  might  those  now  in  life's  morn  lift  a  grateful  voice  up,       » 
\nd  try  to  glean  an  extract  from  the  wine  of  such  a  pure  life-cup. 
Tis  inspiring  just  as  a  cloud  to-day  hangs  o'er  the  world, 

And  we're  tempted  to  doubt  if  there's  a  love  that  never  dies, 
3o  these  precious  leaves  from  a  true  life  volume  we  unfold, 

And  feast  once  more  our  hungry  eyes  : 

fust  in  time  with  its  soothing  elements  of  harmony  all  fraught, 
fust  as  we  felt  this  world  were  dwindling  down  to  naught. 


46  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Once  more  we're  brought  back  by  Reality's  sonorous  voice, 

To  know  there  are  those,  though  far  and  wide  apart, 
Who,  when  they  give  their  hand  to  the  object  of  their  choice, 

Heaven  be  praised  !  they  likewise  give  their  heart ; 
Oh,  that  we  could  far  more  frequent  scan  the  instance  o'er, 
Where  yes  once  said,  remaineth  yes  forevermore. 
Twenty-five  years  of  happiness,  we  may  not  say  unclouded» 

For  life,  for  all,  hath  its  dark  hours  ever, 
But  if  shadows  have  at  times  your  lives  enshrouded, 

How  bravely,  truly,  were  they  shared  together, 
Thus  lifting  together  burdens  of  foul  anxiety  and  care, 
Making  life's  pathway  not  of  thorns,  but  roses  fair. 

And  now  we  would  ask  that  o'er  these  lives  so  blest, 

The  angel  of  Peace  may  henceforth  hover, 
That  no  feelings  of  uneasiness,  or  shadow  of  unrest, 

E'er  lurk  beneath  her  fair  wing's  cover. 
Twenty-five  years  of  mutual  enjoyment  spent, 
We  predict  the  coming  ones  filled  with  calm  content ; 
May  welcome  blessings  e'er  be  shed, 

And  never  round  you  be  known  to  slumber, 
May  silver  turn  gold  around  your  head, 

And  diamonds  join  the  number. 

That  this  slight  memorial  tribute  one  happy  moment  lend, 
Is  the  sincere  wish  of  one  you  may  deem  a  friend. 

CHICAGO,  August  31,  1874. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  47 


THE  MARBLE  HEART. 


(INCIDENTAL  POEM.) 

THEY  pass  me  by  with  a  smile  and  a  bow, 

And  linger  with  low-spoken  words  by  my  side, 

They  twine  wreaths  of  affection  over  my  brow, 
And  all  possess  love,  fortune  and  pride. 

But  the  trammeled  heart  beats  not  at  their  coming, 

And  notes  not  their  glances  or  tone, 
Heart  that  would  fain  towards  the  lovelight  be  running, 

With  a  music  to  equal  their  own. 

For  all  of  them  wonder,  nor  dream  of  the  ashes 

Buried  from  the  world's  eyes  apart ; 
And  not  dreaming  of  a  sorrow  that  clashes, 

They  term  it  a  marble  heart. 

But  they  pass  from  sight,  all  these  loves  of  mine, 

And  the  heart  heedeth  not  their  sigh, 
But  clings  to  a  love  that  was  wont  to  shine, 

One  time  in  the  long  gone  by. 

Heart  that  hath  beaten  for  one,  from  all  others  apart, 

Will  cannot  recall  a  flutter  that's  o'er, 
Call  it,  if  they  will,  then,  a  marble  heart, 

For  'twill  never  know  love  any  more. 


48  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


GALENA. 


FLOSSY  and  light  was  her  hair,  and  her  face  was  fair, 
Her  form  genteel,  and  her  manners  gay, 

But  one  April  day  cool,  a  messenger  entered  our  school, 
And  bore  our  pet  classmate  away. 


FIRE. 


OH,  demon,  with  thy  scorching  breath  and  fiery  hand  ! 

And  thou  hast  let  thy  venom  and  fury  rest 
Once  more  upon  this  fair  Western  land, 

Nor  spared  the  Queen  City  of  the  Imperial  West ! 

Once  more  Chicago  has  beheld  her  dark-wreathed  foe ! 

And  once  more  has  bent  beneath  his  withering  blast ; 
Again  felt  the  heavy  and  unlocked  for  blow, 

With  its  direful  clouds  so  thickly  overcast ! 

But  though  thou  hast  trampled  treasures  to  us  so  dear, 
Memorial  gems,  valued  next  to  our  own  life, 

It  shows  us  we  should  have  no  idols  here, 
In  this  transient  battle-field  of  toil  and  strife  ! 


PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  49 


Though  thy  forked  tongues  did  lap  mercilessly  around  us, 
Laying  a  lifetime's  hopes  low  down  in  the  dust, 

After  the  first  wild  grief's  o'er,  we  interpret  thus, 
Not  in  earth,  but  in  Heaven,  should  be  our  trust ! 

CHICAGO,  July  14,  1874. 


OCTOBER, 


JOYOUS,  sunny  days,  so  bright  and  clear, 

But,  oh,  how  short  a  time  they  last ! 
For  ere  we  dream  their  close  is  near, 

Summer  has  joined  the  past : 
While  we  rush  on,  nor  dream  that  summer's  done, 
We're  greeted. by  the  rays  of  autumnal  sun. 
Swiftly  the  days  have  glided  by, 

That  have  passed  beyond  recalling, 
Withered  and  blighted  the  flowrets  lie, 

The  autumn  leaves  are  falling ; 
And  over  many  a  gorgeous  Nature-painted  scene, 
October's  gold  and  amber  stream. 


50  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


GUARD  THY  LIPS. 


OH,  when  harsh  and  hasty  words  arise, 
And  clouds  of  vexation  dim  the  eyes, 
And  anger  begins  to  settle  down, 
And  the  face  puts  on  a  sullen  frown  ; 
When  wrathful  thoughts  rush  quickly  up, 
Oh,  dash  aside  the  poisoned  cup, 
And  guard  thy  lips ! 

Guard  them,  lest,  in  an  unguarded  hour, 
They  should  utter,  beyond  thy  power, 
Words  to  wound  some  loving  heart, 
Perhaps,  a  lasting  scar  impart ; 
Inevitable  words  when  once  they're  spoken, 
Nothing  can  heal  the  heart  they've  broken, 
Then,  guard  thy  lips  ! 


EYES. 


THERE'S  no  feature  of  the  human  face, 

No  peculiar  air  or  winning  grace, 

That  comprehends  so  much,  yet  so  little  tells, 

As  these  deep,  unfathomable  wells  : 

We  look  to  read  Vexation  or  surprise, 

From  the  fountain  of  those  orbs  we  prize. 


PATCHWORK—  JUVENILE  POEM 3.  51 


Secrets,  locked  in  portals  of  the  heart, 

Eyes  help  wonderfully  to  impart  • 

Of  many  eyes  of  many  hues, 

I've  a  choice  :  tell  it  ?  I  refuse-. 

Of  the  many  eyes  that  smile  or  frown, 

I'll  not  say  'tis  black  or  brown. 

It  may  be  neither,  but  'tis  true, 

'Tis  one  of  which  there  are  but  few ; 

It  looketh  kindly  on  God's  creatures  all, 

Nor  spurneth  one  tho'  it  be  small; 

Their  depths  a  volume  of  truth  express, 

Their  color — but  that  I'll  leave  for  you  to  guess. 


LONG  ENGAGEMENTS. 


OH  !  the  long  engagement  on  firm  philosophy  doth  stand, 

Nor  from  that  firmness  should  it  e'er  depart, 
Ah,  fair  one,  beware  that  when  you  bestow  your  hand, 

You  are  ready,  too,  to  give  your  heart ; 
Preoared  to  surrender  it  without  retrieve, 
That  you  may  ne'er  o'er  that  disposal  grieve. 

Be  it  carefully  stored  within  the  chamber  of  the  mind  forever, 

In  this  scandalous  age  of  turmoil  and  strife, 
Better  be  a  contented  "  old  maid  "  with  no  odious  chain  to  sever, 

Than  to  be  a  miserable,  unhappy  wife  ; 
Be  cautious  of  that  step  which  may  to  outside  counsel  tend, 
A  step,  in  brief,  to  require  the  advice  of  a — "  Mutual  Friend." 


52  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Wary  and  deliberate,  then,  not  a  matrimonial  rush  so  fast, 
Better  now  struggle  through  a  year  of  heartache  (?) 

Than  thread  a  life  with  clouds  of  misery  o'ercast, 
Beholding  repentance  gush  forth  "  too  late  ;  " 

Better,  though  impatiently,  some  days  of  meditation  waste, 

Than  repent,  at  leisure,  for  a  marriage  in  haste. 

Oh,  the  sad,  sad  dawning  when  that  bitter  truth  awake, 
That  Love  hath  forsaken  his  vine-wreathed  bower, 

The  o'erwhelming  grief  that  clusters  round  that  sad  "  too  late," 
In  its  first  dark  and  drenching  shower : 

Banish  the  short  engagement,  that  paths  with  sorrow  set, 

That  yes  once  said,  may  e'er  t>eyes,  without  regret. 


SEPTEMBER. 


THE  summer  e'en  in  this  eventful  city  has  swiftly  glided  by, 

Leaving  each  heart  its  sorrow  or  joy  to  tell, 
And  each  heart  knows  what  in  its  hidden  chambers  lie, 

As  summer  biddeth  earth  farewell. 
I  would  not  cloud,  for  a  moment,  the  sun  of  another's  life, 

Only  my  own  crowding  thoughts  express  ; 
In  this  world  where  there's  so  much  inevitable  strife, 

'Tis  not  idle  fancy  to  candidly  confess, 
That  amid  the  sunshine  and  shower,  the  frown  and  smile, 
There's  scenes  little  actually  worth  one's  while — 
But  this  is  for  thee,  absent  friend,  I  would  not  give  thee  sorrow, 
Though  the  world  seems  dark  to-day,  it  may  be  light  to-morrow. 

CHICAGO,  September  i,  1874. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  53 


THE  MESSAGE  I  WOULD  LEAVE. 


I'm  very  sick,  mamma,  put  your  hand  upon  my  breast, 

I  feel  that  I  may  die  in  the  Garden  City  of  the  West, 

My  voice  is  weak,  and  trembling,  blurs  come  before  my  eye, 

I  may  recover,  but  take  this  message,  lest  that  I  should  die  : 

A  message  for  yourself,  mamma,  I  leave  it  first  of  all, 

Do  not  weep  for  me,  mother,  if  death  should  chance  to  call ; 

Think  of  me  as  past  to  a  warmer,  more  congenial  spot, 

Where  storms  of  sorrow  and  tempests  enter  not ; 

Conduct  our  plans,  just  as  if  I'd  lived,  you  know, 

From  those  bright  realms  I'll  look  upon  the  scene  below  : 

Tell  Willard  for  cousie's  sake  to  have  noble  aims  in  view, 

To  walk  the  path  that's  harmless,  nor  deviate  from  the  true : 

And  all  my  friends,  where  e'er  they  are,  if  I  should  die, 

Give  them  this — my  last  good-bye. 

CHICAGO,  August  21,  1874. 


A  WOMAN'S  HEART. 


Miss  Meddlesome  who  tries  God's  plans,  and  those  of  man, 
Ever  and  anon  with  prying  eyes  to  scan, 
Admits  one  thing  from  her  cautious  eye  apart, 
And  cries  indignantly,  "A  woman's  heart !" 


54  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Just  as  she  thinks  its  contents  nicely  read, 
Lo !  she  finds  herself  entirely  misled  ; 
A  wonder  more  than  mechanism  of  art — 
Something  ne'er  read — a  woman's  heart ! 

Within  its  secret  chambers  there  may  lie 
Joys  or  sorrows  closely  veiled  from  human  eye, 
An  unsolved  mystery  from  all  eyes  apart, 
Read  it  if  you  can — a  woman's  heart ! 

The  winning  smile,  and  laugh  so  joyous  glad, 
May  conceal  feelings  sorrowful  and  sad, 
And  the  pensive  brow  and  downcast  look 
Are  alike  an  unread,  a  closed  book  ! 

Dim  want  and  woe,  dark  toil  and  care, 
May  have  marred  a  face  of  beauty  rare, 
And  love  or  hate  may  have  played  a  part ; 
'Tis  never  read — a  woman's  heart ! 

Perchance  the  fitful  pallor  or  vivid  blush, 
May  give  hope  and  courage  quite  a  rush ; 
But  don't  think  you've  read  it,  not  e'en  in  part, 
That  mystic  problem,  a  woman's  heart  ? 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  55 


THE  STEPMOTHER'S  CHAIR. 


FROM        FORGET-ME-NOT." 

To  those  who  are  contemplating  connubial  bliss, 

A  word  of  kind  advice  is  offered,  it  is  this : 

Consider  the  all-important  step  you're  about  to  take, 

And  be  sure  you're  sensing  the  responsibilities  it  awake, 

For  behold  your  future  happiness  at  stake  ! 

There  is  no  half-way,  'tis  a  life  of  joy  or  one  of  woe, 

Lies  in  the  path  toward  which  you  go ; 

Your  thoughts  into  the  bosom  of  Contemplation  throw, 

To  study  o'er  your  advancing  fate, 

Pauses  in  time  save  stumbles  late  : 

Direct  your  attention  to  the  monitor  Beware, 

For  grief  precedes  you  to  the  stepmother's  chair  ! 

Joys  may  seem  waiting  there  for  you, 

And  bright  faced  pleasures  may  seem  in  view, 

But  minute  skeins  of  happiness  you  will  see, 

When  once  a  stepmother  you've  come  to  be  ; 

Experience  with  this  verdict  must  agree ; 

Though  the  future  look  e'er  so  bright  and  fair, 

Sorrow  and  trouble  are  lurking  there, 

Bound  with  the  iron  bands  of  care ; 

Though  Joy  his  fairest  roses  seem  to  strew, 

The  green-eyed  Monster's  there  before  you, 

An  e'er  faithful  monitor  is  Beware, 

And  he  suspiciously  eyes  the  stepmother's  chair : 


56  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


It  is  a  step  in  which  seriousness  has  a  share, 

Alas  !  it  is  no  trivial  affair 

To  take  the  step  despite  all  who  may  entreat, 

That  leads  you  to  that  burdened  seat, 

Where  discontent  and  opposition  meet ; 

The  mystic  Nymph  of  Fate,  behold  her  stand, 

Striving  for  admittance  at  your  right  hand ; 

Portraying  reality  sketches,  behold  her  plead  ! 

That  you'll  lift  up  your  eyes  and  read ; 

Pause,  then,  to  scan  the  truth  before  your  eyes, 

Nor  wake,  too  late,  to  a  dread  surprise — 

But,  hark  !  he  nudges  you — the  monitor — Beware, 

Look,  he  cries,  Distress  has  sat  down  in  the  stepmother's  chair ! 


DROP  A  TEAR  FOR  THAT  LONE,  LITTLE  ONE. 


OH,  fortune's  favorite,  when  at  night  you  gather  round 

Your  fireside,  snug  and  warm, 
Think  of  the  lone  one  who  has  not  yet  found 

A  shelter  from  the  blinding  storm. 
When  the  soft  ^Eolian  harp-strings  you  hear, 

As  gently  around  you  they  play, 
Oh,  be  merciful,  and  drop  one  pitiful  tear, 

For  that  lone  one  in  the  wide  world  astray ! 
With  no  house  but  the  lonely,  cheerless  street, 
No  kind  friends  to  welcome,  and  none  to  greet ! 
Let  sympathy  flood  up,  gushingly,  let  it  come, 
And,  oh,  drop  a  tear  for  that  lone,  little  one  ! 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  57 


LOST  STAR  OF  THE  NIGHT. 


For  a  brief  space  I  enjoyed  thy  radiant  light, 
Ere  thou  wert  gone,  lost  Star  of  the  Night ! 

Happy  moments,  suddenly  o'er; 
Too  bright !  too  bright !  they  could  not  stay  ; 
Yet  hope  sheddeth  a  faint  little  ray, 

That  Time  my  lost  Star  will  restore. 
Though  I  may  have  toiled  thro'  many  a  weary  day, 
One  hand  moveth  the  world's  machinery  aright, 
And  I  may  behold  my  lost  Star  of  the  Night ! 

Methinks  no  brighter  moments  ever  were  seen, 
Than  those  that  checkered  my  life  with  green  ; 

Swift-winged  they  flitted  by ; 
From  out  the  past  I  recall  them  now, 
With  aching  heart  and  throbbing  brow, 

And  tears  stealing  to  my  eye, 
Weakness  I  fain  would  not  allow: 
But  when  the  darkness  is  deep,  soon  comes  the  light» 
Return,  oh,  my  lost  Star  of  the  Night 


58  PA  TCHWORK—  JUVENILE  POEMS. 


NELLIE. 


O'ER  the  fallow  lea  and  upland  lawn, 
You  would  see  our  Nellie  at  early  dawn, 
And  truly  an  added  charm  seemed  lent, 
Where'er  her  gladsome  footsteps  went. 

With  the  gentle  sway  of  an  angel's  wing, 
A  thousand  joys  to  our  life  she'd  bring ; 
The  earth  was  flooded  with  gold  and  green, 
When  God  removed  our  one  sunbeam. 


HE  HAD  BUT  ONE  FAULT. 


HIGH-BORN  and  wealthy  was  proud  old  Col.  Lee, 
His  home  was  in  the  distinguished  city  of  B., 
Ten  years  gone  by  his  wife  had  died, 
And  an  only  daughter  was  his  stay — his  pride. 

Muriel,  I  must  admit,  was  wondrously  fair, 

Not  because  romances  prate  of  pink  cheeks  and  golden  hair; 

Not  the  story  that's  grown  insipid  and  olden, 

Her  cheeks  had  no  pink,  her  hair,  no  hue  of  golde 


PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  59 


Au  contraire,  'twas  straight,  and  of  a  pale  brown  hue, 
Her  eyes  were  gray,  instead  of  violet  blue, 
But  a  lovelier  face  one  doesn't  often  see, 
And  none  saw,  but  loved  sweet  Muriel  Lee. 

One  autumn,  the  son  of  Col.  Lee's  old  college  friend, 
Came  a  few  weeks  with  them  to  spend ; 
Victor  St.  Clare  was  of  genuine  French  descent, 
While  an  Appollo-like  form  to  his  beauty  lent. 

Warmly  received,  for  none  but  Muriel  had  he  eyes. 
And  plainly  she  his  every  look  did  prize, 
Till,  at  length,  one  day  the  finale  came, 
Fair  Muriel  for  his  own  he'd  claim. 

They  wanted  but  the  blessing  of  Col.  Lee, 
But  that  they  knew  could  never  be ; 
He  had  favored  the  son  of  his  old  friend, 
But  had  never  dreamed  of  such  an  end. 

But  why  did  he  plead,  and  plead  in  vain, 
He  was  of  high  birth,  bore  an  honored  name; 
An  esteemed  friend's  only  son — 
His  faults  how  few — he  had  but  one. 

But  that  one  of  woful  misery  was  a  sign, 

He  sometimes  took  a  glass  of  wine. 

I  forbear  to  picture  the  meeting  at  dead  of  night, 

The  whispered  words — the  hurried  flight ! 


60  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


"  Ten  years,  ten  years,  and  can  it  be, 
Since  I  resigned  the  name  of  Lee  ? 
Ah,  yes,  for  'tis  ten  years  this  very  night — 
The  well  feigned  plot,  the  cautious  flight ! 

"  Ten  years,  and  can  it  possibly  be  ten  ? 
Dear  Victor  !  how  beautiful  he  look  then, 
But  the  years — oh,  no — the  cursed  wine 
Has  changed  his  form,  so  tall  and  fine ! 

"  My  heart  was  warm,  and,  oh,  how  light ! 
My  trembling  form  in  a  robe  of  white ; 
The  clergyman,  his  wife  and  daughter,  there, 
'  I  wish  you  joy,  Mrs.  St.  Clare.' 

"  My  father's  pleading  voice,  his  earnest  way, 

'  Muriel,  you'll  surely  rue  this  day — ' 

But  why  recall  that  far-off  scene, 

That  comes  like  a  vague,  fantastic  dream  ? 

"  Where  is  he  should  be  here  this  anniversary  eve  ? 
How  can  I  the  sad  truth,  tho'  I  know,  believe  ? 
But,  wait,  I'll  hush  Fredie  sound  to  sleep, 
Then,  I'll  look  him  out  in  the  street. 


"  Hark  !  what  fearful  noise  is  that  I  hear  ? 
Those  deafening  peals  that  reach  my  ear  ? — 
Six  o'clock?  surely,  then,  I've  lost  time, 
For  the  last  I  heard  it  strike  was  nine. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  61 


"  Fredie,  where 's  my  child,  my  precious  babe  ? 
How  could  I  thus  stupidly  have  laid  ? — 
Oh,  he's  yonder  on  his  drunken  father's  arm ! 
Oh,  God  protect  my  babe  from  harm ! 

"  Victor,  my  darling,  come  home  with  me, 
Come,  come  with  your  own  Muriel  Lee, 
Oh,  do  not  sneer  at  my  prayers  and  tears, 
Why  fall  my  entreaties  on  deaf  ears  ?  " 

Rude  boys  are  stoning  the  drunken  man  there, 
And  one  strikes  the  temple  of  Muriel  St.  Clare, 
Thro'  the  air  it  comes  with  a  buzzing  sound, 
And  she  staggers  senseless  to  the  ground ! 

A  confused  noise,  a  man  rushes  thro'  the  street, 
On  comes  the  tread  of  tramping  feet ! 
Col.  Lee  emerges  from  an  unseen  quarter, 
And  bends  o'er  the  form  of  his  lifeless  daughter  \ 

Little  Fredie,  Muriel's  baby  boy, 

Is  taken  to  the  house  of  luxury,  but  no  longer  joy, 

The  tale  of  many  and  many  another, 

The  babe  soon  lies  beside  its  mother. 

And  as  Col.  Lee  sits  musing  o'er  other  days, 
O'er  so  much  that  seems  a  perfect  daze, 
Piercing  shrieks  fly  through  the  air, 
'Tis  the  maniac  voice  of  Victor  St.  Clare ! 


€2  PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS 


Ah,  turn  not  scornfully  away,  my  skeptic  friend, 
Would  that  I  could  this  tale  more  pleasing  end, 
In  that  perilous  course,  now  is  the  time  to  halt, 
Beware,  beware  of  that  one  delusive  fault ! 


CILOME. 


SHE  comes,  at  morn,  at  noon,  at  eventide, 

Lovely  Cilome  is  at  our  side ; 

If  the  day  be  cloudy,  or  be  it  fair, 

She  leaveth  not  her  invalid  chair ; 

Yet  much  of  life  to  her  is  bright, 

But  she's  fading  slowly  from  our  sight. 

We  love  her,  oh,  so  deeply,  purely ! 

Yet  we  clasp  her  not  securely, 

For  the  fair  cheek  grows  daily  whiter, 

And  the  dark  eye  clear  and  brighter ; 

Though  around  her  our  affections  twine, 

Soon  must  we  our  pet  resign. 

Once  she  was  gay  from  morn  till  night, 

But  she's  fading  slowly  from  our  sight. 

We  love  her,  yet  know  that  a  better  home 

Awaits  our  beauteous,  lovely  Cilome. 


PA  TCHWORK—JU VENILE  POEMS.  63 


HEARTS  AND  CLOTHES. 


A  SUIT  of  broadcloth  sure  is  well, 

A  watch  of  eighteen  carats  gold ; 
But  can  such  appendage  please  the  eye 

If  the  heart  be  stony  cold  ? 

Who  can  but  admire  a  heart  where  inherent  beauties  lay, 
Tho'  it  be  covered  o'er  with  a  suit  of  coarse  sheep's  grey  ? 

Though  to  admire  a  silk  of  soft,  sky-blue, 

Of  itself  may  be  no  harm, 
If  the  inward  motives  be  not  true 

It  loseth  every  charm. 

The  lustrous  splendor  fades  from  silk  so  soft, 
If  there  be  no  pure  aspirations  beneath  to  soar  aloft. 

Whate'er  the  external  dress  may  be, 

Though  many  a  jewel  round  it  hovers, 
Should  we  not  e'er  search  first 
To  see  what  heart  it  covers  ? 
For  many  a  tinsel  from  Fashion's  expansive  store, 
Hideous  deformities,  perchance»  may  cover  o'er. 


64  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


DEAR  MOTHER,  I'M  THINKING  OF  THEE. 


DREARILY,  drearily,  snow  and  rain  beat, 

Forming  together  a  dismal  sleet, 

And  behind  a  cloud  the  moon  has  withdrawn, 

E'en  Luna's  smiles  I  no  longer  can  see, 
Nothing  cheerful  around  me  to  dawn  ; 

But,  dear  mother,  I  may  think  of  thee. 

And  a  star  of  miraculous  brightness, 
Sheds  at  once  a  calm,  brilliant  lightness, 
Before  the  eyes  that  no  slumbers  trace, 

Emiting,  oh,  such  a  gladsome  gleam, 
For  directly  I  see  thy  patient  face, 

O'er  the  waste  of  miles  between. 

Ah,  mother,  thou  lovest  me,  and  it's  hard  to  tell, 

If  another  will  ever  love  me  as  well ; 

And  strangely  float  thy  words,  sweet  mother, 

That  oft  thou  hast  spoken  to  me. 
That  "  At  best  the  love  of  another 

Slight  to  a  mother's  must  be." 

Dear  mother,  tried  and  trusted  friend, 
A  prayer  to  Heaven  doth  now  ascend  ; 
And  far  away  to-night  though  thou  art, 

Our  Father'll  be  near  unto  thee ; 
And  thus  bound  together  in  heart, 

Dear  mother,  I'm  thinking  of  thee. 


PA  TCH  WORK—JU  VENILE  POEMS,  65 


THE  WHITE  DRESS. 

• 

X 

•'  ANOTHER  white  dress,  I  do  declare, 

I  think  it  is  too  absurd," 
Observed  with  an  unrelenting  air, 

The  haughty  Mrs.  Furd. 

But  there  are  sorrowful  hearts  to-day, 
And  mourning  on  West  street  to-night, 

For  they've  closed  the  eyes  of  Minnie  Gray, 
And  robed  her  form  in  white. 

Alas,  who  would  not  dress  with  care 

That  graceful,  lifeless  form  ? 
She'll  never  want  another  share, 

Reserve  the  frown  and  scorn. 


LOVE  THAT'S  LOVE  FOREVER. 


LOVE  !  the  word  grates  unmusically  on  the  ear ! 
Yet  'tis  a  word  should  ever  sound  dear ; 
But  where  is  the  love  in  this  cold,  unromantic  age, 
That  fades  not  soon  from  memory's  page  ? 


66  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Where  is  there  a  love  like  Jacob's  of  yore, 

Seven  years'  labor,  and  then  seven  more  ? 

In  what  kind  of  a  channel  does  love  now  glide  ? 

Who'd  labor  half  of  fourteen  years  for  a  bride  ? 

Where  is  that  love  that  perishes  never  ? 

And  where  is  that  love  that  is  love  forever  ? 


Love  !  there  it  is  glowing  vividly  on  pages  of  fiction, 

Set  forth  with  brilliancy  minus  restriction ; 

Love  !  we  see  it  in  those  blissful,  imaginary  scenes, 

Away  in  Fancy's  bright  castle  of  dreams ; 

But  when  we  come  back  from  those  fairy  skies, 

With  stern  Reality  before  our  eyes, 

Back  to  this  stage  of  struggle  and  strife, 

We  look  in  vain  for  that  love  in  grim  real  life ; 

For  where  is  that  love  that  perishes  never? 

And  where  is  that  love  that  is  love  forever  ? 


A  gentle  word,  a  kindly  act,  a  winning  smile, 
May  personate  love  for  a  little  while ; 
The  silent  handclasp,  the  thrilling  touch, 
That  seem  to  say,  "  I  love  thee  much ;  " 
Soul-speaking  eyes,  a  voice  that  trembles  slightly, 
And  says,  "  I  do  not  love  thee  lightly ;" 
And,  oh,  beware  !  for  Cupid  a  Counterfeit  sends. 
And  rarely  his  stately  presence  lends; 
For  where  is  that  love  that  perishes  never  ? 
And  where  is  that  love  that  is  love  forever  ? 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  67 


Ofttimes  a  fancy  for  love  is  mistaken, 

Sad  indeed,  as  the  fact  in  the  future  awaken ! 

Smiling  angels  ne'er  look  down  from  above, 

To  sanction  a  limpy  apology  for  love : 

Think  such  a  heart  adamant,  do  you  ?  so  hard  ! 

Of  all  inherent  flexibility  debarred  ; 

But  if  love  with  memory's  dews  is  e'er  wet, 

I  reiterate,  true  love  can  never  forget ; 

For  where  is  that  love  that  perishes  never  ? 

And  where  is  that  love  that  is  love  forever? 


ARIEL  AND  LITTLE  NELL. 


'NEATH  the  Willow  at  the  well, 
In  those  by-gone,  golden  days, 

Sat  Ariel  and  little  Nell, 

And  shared  each  other's  plays. 

While  he  reached  manhood  proud  and  free, 

Rare  loveliness  on  her  fell, 
And  still  beneath  that  Willow-tree 

Sat  Ariel  and  little  Nell. 

Days  passed  like  bright  sunbeams, 
Draughts  from  joy's  deepest  well 

Brightened  the  youthful  dreams 
Of  Ariel  and  little  Nell. 


68  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


But  a  message  flew  o'er  the  wires — 

They  spoke  their  sad  farewell, 
Of  their  hopes  and  fond  desires, 

'Neath  the  Willow  at  the  well. 

Their  parting  mingled  with  sighs  and  tears, 
"  Sad  railroad  accident !  and  — "  oh,  well, 

They  looked  in  less  than  two  short  years, 
On  the  graves  of  Ariel  and  little  Nell. 

Close  beside  his  grave  they  laid  her, 

'Neath  the  Willow  at  the  well, 
And  gently  the  fall  leaves  stir, 

O'er  the  graves  of  Ariel  and  little  Nell. 


GIVE  ME  THE  "  DINNER  OF  HERBS." 


THO'  all  luxurious  ornaments  hung  round, 
That  e'er  in  Wealth's  domains  are  found, 
Must  e'er  arise  dissention's  sound, 

Give  me  the  "  dinner  of  herbs." 

Rather  than  clouds  of  discontent  should  prey. 
Growing  denser  from  day  to  day, 
With  seldom  a  smile  that's  cheerful  or  gay, 
Give  me  the  "  dinner  of  herbs." 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  69 


Rather  than  admit  a  frown,  though  slight, 
Implying  that  something  isn't  right ; 
Than  take  one  inch  from  peaceful  light, 
Give  me  the  "  dinner  of  herbs." 

Though  a  stalled  ox  for  a  moment  please  the  taste, 
Who  life's  happiness  would  waste, 
Or  o'er  it  put  a  gilded  paste  ? 

Give  me  the  "dinner  of  herbs." 

Must  we  choose  between  the  two, 
My  friend,  I  will  not  speak  for  you, 
But  deliberately,  calm  and  true, 

Give  me  the  "  dinner  of  herbs." 


OUR  BETTER  HOME. 


OH,  why  bestow  upon  our  love  and  best  affection, 

And  hug  as  a  miser  hugs  his  treasure, 
A  world  which  promises  no  protection 

'Gainst  uncertain  life  and  pleasure; 
And  though  some  joys  we  grasp  by  the  wayside, 

They're  a  transient  gift,  a  loan, 
Not  till  we've  crossed  the  mystic  tide, 

Shall  we  behold  our  better  home. 

It  hath  been  said  "  this  beautiful  world  of  ours," 

But  there  is  one  more  bright, 
Where  bloom  far  more  lasting  flowers, 

Than  ever  greet  our  sight; 


70  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


There  we  may  spend  the  endless  ages, 

With  Jesus,  our  Father's  son, 
Not  till  we've  turned  life's  fickle  pages, 

Shall  we  behold  our  better  home. 

We're  borne  along  on  Time's  untiring  wing, 

Soon  must  we  loose  our  hold 
On  every  vain  and  earthly  thing ; 

Then,  what,  alas,  is  gold 
And  wealth  beside  a  Higher  approbation  ? 

Tho'  Fame  and  Honor  round  us  shone, 
We  were  the  same  of  lowly  station, 

Till  we  reach  our  better  home. 

I've  gazed  at  the  distant  dazzling  moon, 

And  wandered  by  the  lakelet  clear, 
In  the  balmy  month  of  June, 

When  angel  voices  seemed  hovering  near, 
And  His  presence  filled  the  air, 

And  'mid  all  the  beauties  there  that  shone 
Up  rose  whispers  of  a  world  more  fair, 

It  is  our  better  home. 

Then,  let  us  keep  this  thought  in  view 

As  we  journey  on  our  way, 
When  this  fleeting  life  is  through, 

There  is  a  brighter  day, 
If  we  strive  to  enter  the  straight  gate  in, 

Thro'  the  means  which  God  hath  given  ; 
Know  in  this  world  of  strife  and  sin, 

Our  better  home's  in  Heaven. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  71 


A  DOUBLE  LIFE. 


I  ENTERED  the  palatine  mansion  grand, 

Perceived  a  mildew  in  the  air, 
Though  elegance  on  every  hand 

Sat  smiling  'mid  the  grandeur  there. 
She  who  came  forward  with  a  smile 

Was  honored  Lady  Blee, 
And  yet,  beneath  the  hand  of  style 

Was  something  stored  away. 

A  picture  of  the  dim,  far-distant  past, 

That  highly  she  once  did  prize ; 
A  picture  with  misty  shadows  overcast, 

And  hid  from  human  eyes. 
A  seat  beside  a  well-sweep  oaken, 

A  coat  of  homespun  gray, 
A  pledge  that  should  ne'er  been  broken, 

Alas,  a  title  was  in  the  way! 

Then  the  hand  of  ivory  whiteness 

Was  browned  in  summer's  sun, 
And  the  heart  was  full  of  lightness, 

To  hail  the  days,  ah,  every  one ! 
Now  the  shadows  that  o'er  her  lay 

Showed  care  and  sorrow  rife : 
Oh,  who,  e'en  to  be  Lady  Blee, 

Would  lead  a  double  life  ? 


72  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


A  PROPHECY. 


A  WOMAN  o'er  whose  low,  bowed  head, 

Three-score  years  have  rolled, 
And  gray  and  silver  have  found  a  bed, 

Where  rested  auburn  braid  and  fold. 
She  recalls  through  a  channel  blotted  by  years, 

Dreams  of  the  vague,  far  past, 
While  Faith,  not  Fancy,  quietly  rears 

Bright  castles  that  may  last. 
With  resignation  she  looks  to  Heaven, 

Grateful  for  joys  that  proved  so  fleeting, 
And  for  that  mite  of  fruitful  leaven, 

That  signals  their  future  meeting ; 
And  she  is  happy  with  her  day-dreams 

Lying  shattered  all  around, 
And  Memory   wandering  o'er  scenes 

That  cause  a  sigh  profound. 
Wonder  and  surprise  may  mingle, 

At  this  lonely   woman's  choice, 
That  she  should  live  unloved  and  single, 

Away  from  kindred  voice. 
Unloved  ?  Ah,  no ;  for  children  of  mirth  and  glee, 

With  flowers  to  form  and  dolls  to  dress, 
Fondle  unrebuked  around  her  knee, 

With  soft  and  sweet  caress ; 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  73 

And  the  velvety  hands  of  the  city  maiden, 

And  toil-brown  palms  of  the  country  lass, 
When  their  hearts  with  sorrow  are  laden, 

Are  reached  to  her  for  a  comfort-pass  ; 
And  she,  searching  Memory's  spectral  hall, 

Banishing  all  cares  of  her  own, 
Draws  thence  a  word  of  advice  for  all, 

That  her  early  years  hath  sown. 
With  such  a  degree  of  patience  she  listens 

To  their  youthful  troubles  laid, 
That  her  eye  with  tears  oft  glistens, 

At  the  words,  "  What  a  good  '  old  maid  ' !" 
And  to  her  the  aged,  bowed  with  vears, 

Come  with  their  heavy  grief, 
And  receive  the  balmy  word  that  cheers, 

And  gives  to  the  mind  relief. 
She  finds  "  old  maids  "  can  be  of  u  tility  after  all ; 

Though  not  wives  and  mothers, 
They  can  answer  the  piteous  call, 

And  starving  cry  of  others ; 
And  Fortune's  favored  hand  that's  laid 

With  Fate's  mystic  chimes  agreed, 
Within  the  home  of  this  "  old  maid," 

Benefits  those  who  need. 
There's  a  wealth  of  house-plants  and  garden  flowers, 

For  the  unfortunate  an  ample  space ; 
And  in  her  thoughtful,  leisure  hours, 

The  pen  is  her  companion  fair, 
Many  a  long  and  weary  hour  beguiling ; 


74  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Yea,  after  a  life's  struggle  and  strife, 
She  grasps  the  Genius  that  cast  his  smiling 

O'er  the  early  morning  of  her  life; 
And  turns  one  tho't  adown  the  grassy  slopes, 

To  bid  a  long,  a  last  farewell. 
O'er  her  dreams  and  dead  purposes 

The  heart  no  longer  may  swell ; 
Nor  eye  kindle  with  joyous  pride, 

At  some  fond,  lingering  glance ; 
Bubbles  that  float  o'er  life's  youthful  tide, 

Break  as  the  stream  advance. 
Hark !  the  air  itself  seems  almost  stilled, 

At  the  close  of  these  fancied  lines ; 
Will  the  prophecy  be  fulfilled, 

For  her  who  pens  these  rhymes  ? 


THE  IMPRESS  ON  THE  SAND. 


HE  sat,  a  child  of  five  years  old, 

And  carv'd  with  his  fat  and  dimpled  hand, 
Pictures,  he  called  brave  and  bold, 

In  the  bed  of  scorching  sand. 

Next  day  he  went  to  see  his  pictures  fair, 
And,  thoughtful,  for  a  moment  did  he  stand, 

For  the  pictures  were  no  longer  there, 
But  their  impress  was  on  the  sand. 


PATCHWORK—  JUVENILE  POEMS.  75 


Thus  the  pictures  we're  carving  from  day  to  day, 
Our  utmost  thought  and  care  demand, 

For,  though  the  original  be  swept  away, 
The  impress  will  ever  stand. 


AND  THE  YEARS  GO  BY. 


Then  the  varied  seasons  come  and  go, 
There's  summer's  sun  and  winter's  snow ; 
To  some  they  bring  akin  to  unbroken  joy, 
To  others,  misfortunes  that  hope  destroy ; 
Some  seem  rushing  headlong  thro'  the  world, 
Grasping  whate'er  in  their  reach  is  hurl'd ; 
Some,  striving  with  neighbors  to  vie  ; 
And  that's  the  way  the  years  go  by. 

Some  are  flitting  blithely  to  and  fro, 

Culling  all  the  best  as  they  go ; 

Here  the  marriage  bells  are  ringing, 

While  lov'd  friends  bright  gifts  are  bringing ; 

There,  not  a  mile,  perchance,  between, 

Behold  a  sad,  contrasting  scene  ! 

Death  a  fair,  youthful  mourner  would  crave, 

As  she  weeps  over  a  new-made  grave. 

While  some  life's  voyage  are  just  beginning, 
With  hope  of  future  joys  winning, 
Others  have  swallowed  the  dregs  of  life's  bitter  cup, 
And  would  fain  sit  down  not  to  rise  up ; 


76  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Verily  each  day  brings  its  joy  or  care, 
Its  hours  clouded,  or  its  hours  fair; 
Some  gayly  laugh  while  others  sigh, 
And  that's  the  way  the  years  go  by. 


AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  SUMMER'S  LAST  DAY, 


THOU  art  many  a  mile  from  here  at  this  twilight  hour, 

And,  I.  oh,  I'm  so  weary  and  faint, 
Yet  I'll  bring  one  picture  from  Memory's  bower, 

And  bid  Poesy  endeavor  to  paint ; 
And  canst  thou  not  guess  what  that  picture  must  be, 
Or  doubt  for  a  moment  'tis  a  picture  of  thee  ? 
Just  as  the  sun  glides  adown  the  west, 

I  think  of  thee,  absent  friend,  far  away, 
As  I  watch  the  beams  with  their  golden  crest, 

Shining  at  the  close  of  summer's  last  day ; 
(And  foretelling  the  speedy  arrival  of  autumnal  air 
Methinks  they  point  at  the  snow  white  dress  I  wear ;) 
And  down  in  the  channel  of  by-gone  weeks, 

Is  a  picture  that  long  must  last, 
It  hath  its  gray  and  its  golden  streaks, 

And  they  form  a  sweet,  sad  contrast ; 
We  met,  and  kindled  affection  twined  round  each  heart, 
Gray  streaks  the  golden — 'tis  when  we  part. 

CHICAGO,  August  31,  1874. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  77 


SUSAN  JANE. 


A  HOOD  in  winter,  and  shaker  in  summer  days, 

Covered  the  silvery  head, 

"  Old  and  cross  "  the  children  said : 
Old  fashioned  and  queer  in  all  her  ways, 

Every  day  she  went  her  round, 

Picking  up  aught  that  was  to  be  found, 

From  rise  of  morn  till  set  of  sun, 

She  could  not  say  her  work  was  done ; 
From  day-break,  at  early  morn,  onward  went  the  weary  form, 

Up  and  down  the  city  lane, 

The  half-bent  form  of  Susan  Jane. 

* 

There  never  occurred  the  thought  that  she  once  was  young, 
That  the  same  wrinkled,  old  face  was  fair, 
And  bronze  those  silvery  locks  of  hair ; 

Only  that  an  unfathomable  mystery  round  her  hung : 
From  homes  of  luxury  comes  bright  light, 
Tho'  'tis  still  but  the  hour  of  twilight — 
That  hut  with  spliced  door  and  broken  pane, 
Behold  the  home  of  Susan  Jane  ! 

A  sad  tale  it  is  to  be  told,  of  this  creature  so  shrunken  and  old, 
A  blighted  life,  but  there's  no  reproach  or  stain, 
On  the  heart  and  character  of  Susan  Jane. 


78  PA  TCH  WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


The  morn  was  piercing  cold,  keen,  frosty  was  the  air, 

The  piteous  object  was  not  on  her  wonted  round, 

Within  was  not  a  stir,  not  a  sound  ; 
They  broke  the  wooden  door  and  found  beside  her  empty  chair, 

Clasping  a  miniature  with  many  a  stain, 

The  lifeless  form  of  Susan  Jane  : 

A  face  of  girlish  beauty,  'side  one  manly  bold, 

Alas,  the  sad  sequel  it  unfold ! 

A  fair  and  young,  but  humble,  girl — her  lover,  the  son  of  a 
mercenary  earl, 

Deceit  and  fraud  to  part  the  train, 

Such  is  the  story  of  Susan  Jane. 


LOVE  OF  A  LIFETIME. 


SARATOGA  !    delightful  spot !    where  cares  are  banished  from  the 
mind, 

Where  time  flies  all  too  swift  to  measure, 
Where  manv  for  idle  hours  pastime  and  amusement  find, 

And  drown  their  perplexing  tho'ts  in  pleasure : 
Saratoga  !  how  many  a  memorable  scene  before  thee  flies, 
How  many  a  romance  buried  in  thy  bosem  lies ! 

September  and  the  popular  season  of  resort  is  o'er, 
Crowds  of  guests  for  respective  homes  are  starting; 

In  a  rustic  bower  where  many  have  met  before, 

Sat  two  speaking  of  the  coming  day — the  day  of  parting ; 

A  maiden  whom  nineteen  years  of  joy  had  beautified, 

A  noble  form  of  as  many  years  and  ten  was  at  her  side. 


PA  TCHWORK—  J UVENILE  POEMS.  79 


"  A  meeting  and  a  parting,  how  near  they  come  together  — 

I  love  you,"  said  he,  "  dearest  one,  I  know, 
With  a  love  that  will  grow  brighter  and  still  brighter  ever, 

That  time  shall  but  tinge  with  an  ever-reviving  glow." 
But  the  brilliant  heiress  had  heard  many  a  tale  by  love  before, 
And  questioned  were  this  not  the  same  smoothly  varnished  o'er. 

Still  Conscience  was  pleading  for  the  love  and  music  in  her  ear, 
What  her  words  would  have  been  none  e'er  may  know  ; 

Her  dark  eyes  turned  to  him,  in  one  there  stood  a  tear, 
Three  words  escaped,  in  accents  firm  and  low, 

"  Have  you  considered  "  —  a  convulsive  gasp  —  hands  clasp'd,  as 
if  to  pray, 

And  in  his  loving  arms  her  lifeless  body  lay. 

Oft  came  before  his  eyes  smiles  from  fairy  forms  in  floating  dress 
But  the  wild  tumult  of  his  heart  was  never  stilled, 

Twas  one  to  him,  for  no  amount  of  flattery  or  caress 
Could  fill  the  heart  that  she  had  filled. 

The  years  have  cycled  round  fifty  times  and  nine, 

Still  he  clings  with  fond  affection  to  the  lost  love  of  a  lifetime. 


THE  SAILOR'S  WIFE. 


"AND  I've  stood  to-day  and  watched  the  White  Cloud  float  away, 

Away,  away,  o'er  the  stormy  sea, 

One  true  heart  it  bore  from  me ; 
Ah,  mayn't  come  anxiety  and  pain,  ere  I  see  it  float  back  again. 


8o  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


"  Bravely  he  steeled  his  heart,  as  we  stood  on  the  deck  to  part. 

But  more  than  all  my  sobs  and  cries, 

Spoke  those  two  tearless  eyes  ; 
Alas  !  I  ask,  pitiless  sea,  return  again  my  love  to  me. 

"  While  out  on  the  moaning  deep,  his  lone  vigil  he'll  keep, 

I  shall  pray  for  and  await  him  here, 

Perchance  oft  with  trembling  and  fear; 
Hidden  from  my  nearest  relation,  only  One  can  give  consolation. 

"  Yes,  there  is  comfort  to  be  had,  e'en  though  I  am  sad, 

The  same  Eye  looks  on  the  stormy  sea, 

That  here,  lovingly,  watcheth  o'er  me; 
Life  would  be,  oh,  how  black  !  should  ihe  White  Cloud  never 

come  back. 

/ 

"  Gone  from  dearest  friend  and  relation,  to  meet  trial  and 
temptation ; 

But  One  his  protector  will  be, 

Far  out  on  the  boisterous  sea ; 
I  here  wait  and  yearn  that  the  White  Cloud  in  due  time  return." 

Years  have  gone,  twenty  and  nine,  her  face  is  old  before  its  time  ; 

Fainter  and  fainter  her  lamp  of  life  burned, 

And  the  White  Cloud  has  never  returned  : 
She's   a  maniac,  and,  wildly,  you  may  hear  her  say, 
"  I  know  I  saw  it  sail  away,  and  'twill  surely  come  back  some  day." 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  8f 


THE  GRAIN  OF  MUSK. 


YEAR  after  year  hath  the  wee  particle  lain, 
Still,  strong  the  perfume  of  the  little  grain  : 
So,  when  we  have  passed  from  care  and  pain, 
Will  the  record  of  our  acts  and  deeds  remain. 


TIRED  OF  LIFE. 


(REAL.) 

His  voice  was  piteous,  and  his  face  was  thin, 
As  he  begged  for  a  morsel  of  bread ; 

But  no  one  welcomed  him  in; 

They  pushed  him  away,  and  the  sin 
Silently  recoiled  on  their  head. 

"  Kind  gentlemen,  give  me  a  dime," 
And  he  heaved  a  heart-rending  sigh ; 

"  Alas,  when  fair  fortune  once  was  mine, 

I've  given,  ah,  how  many  a  time  ! 
Now  I'm  starving  and  longing  to  die. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


*'  Sir,  loan  me  your  knife,  if  you  please ; ' 

Tightly  he  clasped  that  fatal  knife  • 
Ere  the  rash  hand  one  could  seize, 
His  sorrowful  mind  was  at  ease — 
His  own  hand  had  ended  his  life. 

These  words,  reader,  I  would  say  to  you, 

Turn  not  the  beggar  away, 
For  this  sad  tale  is  only  too  true, 
And  is  only  one  of  all  that  accrue, 

Then  speak  to  him  kindly  for  aye. 


LINES. 


TO   B.    B.    RUSSELL,  PUBLISHER,  BOSTON, 

On  receiving  his  present  of  a  volume  of  Poems,  entitled,    "  From 
Shore  to  Shore." 

INSPIRING  gift  !  with  gratitude  I  press  it  to  my  heart, 

And  fondly  clasp  it  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
Beauteous  gems  within,  that  golden  thoughts  impart, 

Of  a  promised  bright,  unfading  Shore  ! 
Gratitude  that  by  tongue  or  pen  cannot  be  told, 

For  a  treasure  richer  far  to  me  than  gold. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  83 


And  may  it  oft  my  thoughts  to  Heaven  uplift, 

From  hence  o'er  mountain  and  river. 
And  gazing  on  the  choice-bound  gift, 

May  I  not  forget  the  giver ; 
Your  kindness  to  an  unpretending  author  shown 

Shall  elicit  thoughts  from  her  distant  valley  home. 


And  know  that  oft  o'er  each  word,  as  o'er  a  feast, 

I  shall  dwell  with  thoughtful  care ! 
My  treasured  and  glowing  emblem  of  the  east, 

That  to  my  far-off  home  I  bear ! 
Grateful,  too,  that  when  here  I  can  no  longer  tarry, 
I  hence  your  kindly  wishes  carry  ! 


And  when  to  this  city  I  shall  bid  farewell, 
Accept  my  own,  for  I  shall  leave  behind, 

Though  no  verbal  word  or  token  tell, 
Wishes  of  the  purest,  sincere  kind ; 

While  these  words  will  ever  flit  my  eyes  before, 

Remember  yon  fair  perennial  Shore ! 


And  Fancy  in  her  meandering  way  may  dally, 
To  picture  sometimes  the  charms, 

Of  a  delightful  and  charming  valley, 
In  Oriskany's  fair  arms ; 

To  picture,  too,  oft  before  my  doting  eyes, 
The  pages  of  the  book  I  prize. 


84  PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Here  I  came  to  a  city  all  unknown, 

Alike  unknown  to  any, 
But  ere  two  short  weeks  have  flown, 

I  find  my  friends  are,  many. 

I  hold  memorials  linked  with  kind  words  spoken, 
But  above  I  prize  this  lasting,  star-gemmed  token. 

Once  more  my  priceless  gem  that  naught  can  measure, 
With  inherent  beauties  that  cannot  perish, 

My  prized  but  yet  unfathomed  treasure, 
Thy  worth  I  e'er  must  cherish ; 

And  when  life's  rough  voyage  at  last  is  o'er, 

We  shall  have  passed  "  from  Shore  to  Shore." 
BOSTON,  August  22,  1873. 


I  FORGET  THEE  NOT. 


TO    AGNES  P . 

DOES  the  sun  e'er  tire  of  rising  and  going  down  again  ? 
Or  the  moon  of  looking  down  at  night  o'er  field  and  plain  ? 
Just  so  are  my  untiring  thoughts  the  same. 

Tho'  river  and  gulf  now  spread  out  'tween  thee  and  me, 
And  though  we're  wide  apart  on  Life's  great  sea, 
Yet  no  more,  my  friend,  do  I  forget  thee. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  85 


Is  it  tiresome  to  bear  thee  constantly  in  my  mind  ? 
Ah,  what  easier  burden  could  I  hope  to  find  ? 
Tis  the  lightest  surely,  and  the  dearest  kind. 

Thou  art  e'er  in  the  mind's  recess,  whether  I  would  or  not, 
And  in  the  heart's  garden,  thou  hast  a  warm,  warm  spot, 
And  the  roses  whisper,  thou  ne'er  shalt  be  forgot. 

The  days  are  dull  and  stupid,  since  thou  left  the  city, 
Hours  of  ennui  filled  with  nothing  gay  or  witty : 
Oh,  say,  why  art  thou  gone  ?  'tis  such  a  pity ! 

Dull  are  the  streets  where  thou  wert  wont  to  walk ; 
Monotonous  the  circles  in  which  thou  used  to  talk ; 
And  in  our  social  gatherings  there  comes  many  a  balk. 

But  this  thou  know,  where  e'er  I  am,  where  e'er  my  lot, 
Whether  in  the  gay  mansion,  or  the  humble  cot, 
Remember  that  I  still  forget  thee  not. 


ON  THE  SHORE  OF  LAKE  MICHIGAN. 


PRELUDE. 


GONE  the  Spring,  and  the  smiles  of  winsome  June 
Deck  again  this  gladsome  earth  of  ours, 

And  gay  birds  sing  in  a  flute-like  tune, 
Of  the  merry  bells  and  blushing  flowers ; 


86  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


When  the  scorching  sun,  without  any  pity, 

Pours  down  from  the  western  sky, 
Oh,  to  leave  the  din  of  the  dusty  city, 

And  come  where  the  cool  lake  breeze  sweeps  by. 

Away  from  the  hurry  and  worry,  and  toil  and  care, 

While  the  world's  confusion  pauses  not, 
Oh,  we'll  leave  it  all  a  brief  respite  to  share, 

In  the  quiet  of  this  beautiful  spot ; 
While  up  through  the  vestibule  of  the  Past, 

Memory  swiftly,  but  surely,  doth  rake, 
Bringing  hence  sunshine  and  shadow  so  fast, 

On  the  shore  of  the  placid  lake. 

And  the  scepter  of  the  past  and  the  Future's  shade, 

Or  joy  gone  by,  and  light  to  come, 
In  the  bosom  of  the  lake  together  are  laid, 

And  there  find  a  peaceful  home ; 
Here,  by  the  side  of  the  lake,  to-day, 

With  a  chance  for  deep  thought  given, 
How  many  a  prayer  for  those  far  away, 

Is  borne  on  the  breezes  to  heaven. 

Here,  to  the  side  of  the  calm  lake,  towards  night, 

Come  the  aged  whose  heads  are  gray, 
And  the  young,  some  of  whose  lives  are  bright, 

And  others  who've  once  been  gay; 
And  some  go  back  o'er  mountain  and  valley, 

To  muse  on  some  happy  hour  of  life  ; 
Others,  tho'  o'er  by-gone  scenes  they  rally, 

Recall  little  but  struggles  and  strife. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  87 


Here  to  the  side  of  the  smooth  floating  lake, 

Come  those  whose  burdens  are  heavy  to  bear, 
And  those  whose  hearts  are  ready  to  break, 

From  a  sorrow  locked  up  with  care  ; 
And  others  breathe  soft  air  at  the  lakeside, 

Who  have  never  known  a  grief, 
Nor  a  passing  shadow  on  Life's  great  tide', 

Nor  a  sorrow  however  brief. 

Those  for  whom  Hope  treasures  no  bright  to-morrow, 

Seek  this  sequestered  nook ; 
Those  whose  troubles  come  before  they  borrow, 

On  these  tranquil  waves  doth  look ; 
Those  whose  clouds  have  ne'er  a  silver  lining, 

Paths  hedged  with  doubt  and  all  uncertain, 
With  not  a  ray  of  bright  light  shining, 

Behind  the  Future's  mystic  curtain. 

Here  came  the  haughty,  and  here  the  proud, 

Here,  too,  the  meek  and  modest  seek  retreat, 
Low  spoken  words  and  laughter  loud, 

Together  at  the  lakeside  meet; 
While  boisterous  words  from  some  lips  fall, 

Others  with  knowledge  and  wisdom  double, 
Rarely  to  conversation  turn  at  all, 

Because  of  some  impending  trouble. 

And,  beauteous  Lake,  blended  with  thy  dream, 

Is  the  sweet  and  vacant  smile, 
Wove  o'er  many  a  fond  love  scene, 

Beneath  thy  gaze  the  while  ; 


88  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Revenge,  vowed  the  recreant  and  dilatory  lover, 
Has  reached  thy  hearing  straight, 

And  thy  broad,  blue  waves  are  a  cover, 
For  the  tale  I  here  relate. 


The  month  was  May,  and  the  evening  calm  and  still, 

A  young  girl  of  slender  form  and  beauty  rare 
Stepped  from  her  palatial  home,  sped  down  the  little  hill,™ 

To  catch  a  breath  of  the  soft,  balmy  air. 
Quickly  she  reached  the  rose-hung,  mossy  gate, 

"  My  intention,  I  believe,  I  will  forsake ; 
I  only  tho't  of  coming  here,  but  its  not  late, 

I'll  take  a  few  steps  toward  the  breezy  lake.' 

And  ere  Ivonne  Leslie  was  the  least  aware, 

Her  home  was  hid  from  sight ; 
She  turned  to  retrace  her  steps,  and  there 

Beheld  what  caused  her  to  start  in  fright. 
Her  senses  reeled,  her  blood  turned  cold, 

Her  hands  clenched  in  a  convulsive  way, 
O'er  her  horror  in  blackest  volumes  rolled, 

Before  her  a  seeming  lifeless  body  lay. 

Her  first  tho't  was  to  run  and  leave  the  scene  behind, 

Then  a  second  resolve  was  taken, 
Scanning  the  channels  of  her  bewildered  mind, 

She  bade  her  energies  all  awaken ; 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  89 


Suppose,  tho't  she,  'twas  my  only  darling  brother, 

Wrecked  here  at  this  untimely  hour, 
No  kind  sister  near,  or  fond,  devoted  mother, 

I'll  rescue  him  ;  it's  in  my  power. 

"  Who  knows  but  he's  a  robber,  fierce  and  bold, 

Ah,  Fear,  just  stand  back  a  moment,  please, 
For  I  have  jewels  of  my  own,  and  gold, 

If  he's  in  need  I'll  give  him  these ; 
It  seems  so  sad,  he  looks  so  fair  and  young, 

Such  an  innocent  and  truthful  face, 
Could  one  sinister  or  evil  look  e'er  clung 

Round  such  comeliness  and  grace  ?" 

So  saying,  with  low  and  cautious  tread, 

She  stooped  by  the  youthful  sleeper's  side, 
Raised  carefully  his  dark  brown  head, 

And  boldly  the  complaints  of  Fear  defied ; 
Suddenly  his  eyes  unclosed  and  gazed  into  her  own, 

Then  stared  mazed  and  wonderingly  around, 
Solving  where  he  had  by  Fate  been  blown, 

And  by  whom  he  had  been  found. 

"  An  angel  dropped  from  heaven,  I  guess — 

But,  stay,  it  may  be  a  spy  sent  out, 
Ah,  lady,  your  countenance  is  angelic,  I  confess, 

And  yet — excuse  me,  I'm  full  of  fear  and  doubt. 
How  came  you  here  I  beg  to  ask,  and  why, 

If  you  are  a  lady,  true,  without  disguise, 
Will  you  not  in  pity  help  me  die, 

And  hide  me  from  mortal  eyes?" 


90  PATCHWORK-^ JUVENILE  POEMS. 


"  As  for  your  doubts  and  fears,  just  let  them  go, 

Henceforth  I'm  your  friend  with  your  consent; 
Your  staunch  friend,  and  not  your  foe, 

So  ease  your  mind  and  be  content ; 
But  I  cannot  help  you,  however,  to  die, 

For  I  want  you  to  live  and  think  life  a  treasure ; 
Come  now,  papa's  house  is  close  by, 

And  he'll  welcome  you  there  with  pleasure." 

"  Ah,  lady,  you're  kind,  but  you  surely  don't  know 

That  I've  tarnished  my  once  pure  name, 
In  an  unguarded  hour  dealt  a  murderous  blow, 

And  stamped  myself  with  a  murder's  stain. 
Ah,  gentle  lady,"  as  Ivonne  shuddered  and  shrank  away, 

'*  I  thought  you'd  hardly  wish  to  take  me  in, 
But  I  could'nt  go  on  in  the  drama-like  play 

Without  telling  you  of  my  sin." 
t 

Ivonne  with  shame  and  agony  bowed  down, 

Pressed  her  hand  to  her  burning  brow, 
Then  said  with  the  semblance  of  a  frown, 

"  I'll  not  forsake  you  now. 
Now,  we'll  go,  but  let  me  tell  you  first, 

You  keep  quiet  and  I'll  tell  the  story, 
With  thrilling  little  details  nurst, 

Relating  to  your  honor  and  your  glory. 

"  It  may  be  wrong,  but  his  confession  in  my  ears  was  emptied, 

And  his  countenance  is  frank  and  clear, 
A  mystery !  he  may  have  been  too  greatly  tempted, 

I'll  protect  him  regardless  of  all  fear ; 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  91 


Should  they  trace  him  I'd  be  in  danger, 

But  love  and  affection  are  already  rife, 
Fate  has  guided  me  to  this  mysterious  stranger, 

I'll  risk  myself  to  save  his  life." 

Months  at  the  Leslie  mansion  flew  away, 

Summer  had  rolled  into  the  past, 
October  tinged  the  earth  with  gray, 

And  her  realms  with  sombre  hues  o'ercast. 
Within  the  grape-vine  arbor  laid  the  rescued  Clarence  Osgood, 

And  with  eyes  pure  vacancy  roaming  o'er ; 
Before  him  with  a  wildly  beating  heart  Ivonne  Leslie  stood, 

He  murmured  a  name  he'd  uttered  oft  before. 

4<  Alice,"  and  with  a  bounding  heart  of  pain, 

Ivonne  knelt  by  her  admired  darling's  side, 
And  listened  closely  as  he  breathed  "  Alice  Lorraine," 

"  The  deceitful  little  wretch,"  she  cried, 
Then  took  back  her  words,  for  she  was  good  at  heart, 

Could  she  reproach  a  girl  she'd  never  seen  ? 
"  But,"  said  she,  "  it's  time  for  us  to  part, 

And  dream  of  the  parenthesis  that's  been. 

"  For  I  can  no  longer  stand,  I  know,  to  hear 

A  name  that  I  so  much  detest — 
A  name  that's  become  odious  to  my  ear, 

Being  by  those  sweet  lips  pressed ; 
If  I  had  only  let  him  die  that  night 

Perhaps  'twould  have  all  been  better. 
Ah,  wait,  what  is  that  looks  so  white  ? 

As  I  live  it  is  a — yes,  a  letter. 


42  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


'*  A  letter,  but  of  a  far  distant  date, 

Penned  by  her  own  false,  fair  hand, 
Ha,  ha,  would  she  share  a  murderer's  fate, 

She  knows  not  of  that  blighting  brand  ? 
I'll  let  her  know  it,  then,  when  he  is  free, 

And  cast  aside  in  the  world  alone, 
He  may  grow  some  time  to  think  of  me, 

Who  for  his  life  would  lay  down  my  own." 

She  hid  the  hated  letter  her  dread  returning, 

Lest  he  suddenly  should  awake, 
With  all  the  excitement  in  her  burning, 

She  sought  the  quiet  lake ; 
A  letter  was  written,  directed  to  a  fair  Southern  city, 

And  then  flung  spitefully  aside, 
"  Ivonne  Leslie,  it  surely  is  a  lamentable  pity 

If  you  must  beg  to  be  a  murderer's  bride." 

The  words  were  hissed  between  her  closed  teeth, 

"  I  saved  him  from  a  path-dishonor  paves" — 
She  rose,  her  feet  sank  underneath, 

She  fell  amid  the  dark  and  rushing  waves  ; 
A  stranger  saw  her  fall,  and  instantly  he  flew, 

Plunged  into  the  water  cold, 
And  forth  the  precious  burden  drew, 

With  courage  undaunted,  bold. 

In  a  swoon  upon  the  sofa  she  was  lain, 

Reviving  she  tho't  of  Clarence,  not  the  hero  brave, 
Then  she  spied  a  card  that  bore  the  name 

Of  him  who  took  her  from  a  watery  grave ; 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  95 


She  gave  a  cry,  a  start,  and  then  fell  back, 

"  Louis  Lorraine"  was  the  name  it  bore  ; 
What  unconnected  link  could  Fate  then  lack, 

To  be  supplied  by  bringing  him  to  their  door? 

And  oft  thereafter  in  the  future  did  they  meet, 

The  envied  Alice's  brother  pulled  her  from  death's  mouth 
The  romantic  episode  she  might  complete, 

And  become  a  bride  of  the  sunny  South  ; 
No  word  of  Alice  or  Osgood  was  spoke,  howe'er, 

For  the  latter  had  crossed  the  ocean, 
But  oft  from  Ivonne  broke  an  impetuous  prayer 

For  him,  touched  with  deep  emotion. 
******* 

Another  month  of  May,  the  night  is  fair  and  clear, 

Ivonne  Leslie  stands  by  the  lake  again, 
Recalls  the  night  she  found  him  here, 

Just  a  year  ago,  the  night  self-same. 
She  gazes  at  the  smooth  waves  as  they  gently  glider 

Then  heaves  a  sigh,  draws  her  shawl  more  tight. 
This  time  Louis  Lorraine  is  sitting  by  her, 

While  she  fancies  Clarence  there  to-night. 

The  wind  blows  softly — then  more  brisk, 

A  storm  is  rising,  they  must  return, 
Shall  he  make  the  venture,  run  the  risk, 

And  his  fate,  good  or  bad,  now  learn  ? 
Her  snow  white  hands  are  clasped  together, 

A  hungry  stare  in  the  burning  eyes, 
Too  statuesque  he  fears  for  love  to  sever, 

But  he  must  attempt,  and  so  he  tries. 


94  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Words  of  love's  lasting  and  sweet  assurance, 

He  poured  at  his  heart's  idol's  feet, 
She  listened  with  ill-concealed  endurance, 

Moved  uneasily  on  her  grassy  seat. 
She  had  pity,  for  alike  she  had  respect, 

Liked  him  as  the  friend  who'd  sav'd  her  life, 
But  not  a  spark  of  that  love  could  she  detect, 

Due  him  from  her  were  she  his  wife. 

Many  a  time  in  past  weeks  she'd  tho't  of  this, 

Dreamed  it  out  and  planned  it  o'er, 
Concluded,  too,  that  she  should  answer  yes, 

From  gratitude,  but  nothing  more, 
But  the  decisive  moment  now  at  hand, 

She  felt  her  resolution  break, 
For  lo !  she  stood  away  in  a  foreign  land, 

Though  sitting  by  that  never-to-be-forgotten  lake. 

She  loved  another  that  was  but  too  true  ; 

And  with  her  love  so  far  away, 
She  felt  that  his  must  be  unreal,  too, 

That  he'd  meet  his  true  love  some  day. 
"  Ah,  I'll  say  my  heart  is  across  the  ocean's  tide, 

And  you,  my  noble  friend  and  brother, 
Surely  would  not  wish  a  heartless  bride, 

Whose  love  is  given  to  another. 

"  But  no,  Clarence  would  be  implicated  by  that  story, 

I'll  do  it  better — I  have  it  now ; 
Go,  wait  my  friend  for  fame  and  glory, 

To  twine  their  arms  around  your  brow. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  95 


I  am  myself  too  young  to  marry,  and  you're  not  old, 
Wait  for  two  short  years  to  flit  around, 

Another  within  your  heart  my  place  will  hold, 
Your  true  love,  I  prophecy  to  then  be  found. 


A  night  in  August  of  the  ensuing  fall, 

Ivonne  sits  by  the  lake  in  twilight  gray. 
In  searching  round,  dreaming  of  no  company  at  all, 

She  spies  a  man  and  a  maiden  gay. 
Slowly  she  raises  the  glass  up  to  her  eyes, 

Closes  her  lips,  no  sound  comes  out, 
For  the  man   is  Clarence — the  maiden — Alice,  no  doubt. 

She  turned,  looked  at  the  lake  she   might  see  no  more. 

Swift  hot  tears  her  eyes  did  swell, 
"  My  life  has  been  shipwrecked  on  this  shore, 

But  I  bid  it  now  a  last  farewell. 
I  saved  his  life,  refused  a  love  as  good  as  gold, 

To  see  him  after  his  absence  in  a  foreign  land, 
Renew  that  boyish  fancy;  to  me  indifferent  and  cold, 

But  soon  on  foreign  soil,  I  too,  shall  stand." 


The  paper  dropped  from  the  cold  and  nerveless  hand — 

Three  years  had  swiftly  flitted  by, 
When  in  that  far  and  distant  land, 

This  paragraph  met  her  eye '- 


96  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


The  marriage  of  her  only  brother  Wilbur, 
With  Alice,  youngest  daughter  of  R.  Lorraine, 

A  wealthy  and  prosperous  Southern  planter, 
Of  ancient  and  honored  name. 

And  the  couples  the  happy  pair  attending, 

The  name  of  Louis  Lorraine,  brother  of  the  bride, 
With  Minnie,  sister  of  Clarence  Osgood,  blending, 

Lifted  a  curtain  revealing  the  mystified ; 
And  Ivonne  knew — and  wish'd  she'd  kissed  her, 

That  the  lovely  girl  with  Clarance  that  nig/if, 
Was  her  brother's  wife,  his  darling  sister, 

It  was  a  revelation  of  refulgent  light ! 


The  White  Star  was  ploughing  thro'  the  waves, 

The  winds  were  howling  loud, 
And  fast  beat  the  heart  of  the  sailor  braves, 

As  they  noticed  each  fierce  and  threatening  cloud ; 
Tearful  eyes  gazed  from  cabin  windows  afar, 

And  piteous  sobs  rent  the  midnight  air, 
And  one  there  was  in  that  doom'd  White  Star, 

Alone,  and  oh,  so  young  and  fair. 

With  long  and  jetty  hair  unbound, 

With  eyes  of  haunting  midnight  hue, 
With  clasped  hands,  without  a  sound, 

She  scanned  the  sickening  view. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  97 


With  blanching  cheeks  and  paling  lips  Ivonne  Leslie  stood, 
The  blood  seemed  curdling  in  her  heart. 

A  loved  name  trembled  on  her  lips — "  Clarence  Osgood," 
A  deafening  shock,  and  the  White  Star  rent  apart. 

She  opened  her  eyes  on  board  another  ship,  gallant  and  proud, 

Felt  herself  supported  in  two  strong  arms, 
A  young  lord  on  the  Europe  bound  White  Cloud 

Had  rescued  her  "mid  perilous  alarms  ; 
And  the  fair  patient  unconsciously  won  his  heart, 

With  her  his  fond  thot's  were  woven  in  connection ; 
With  wealth,  rank  and  title,  would  he  part 

Could  he  but  gain  her  heart's  affection. 

On  plashed  the  White  Cloud  o'er  the  foamy  waves, 

While  Inna's  new  found  friend  clung  to  her  side 
Almost  wishing  they  might  find  ocean  graves, 

If  she  could  not  be,  alive,  his  bride; 
And  Inna  essayed  to  let  past  hopes  vanish 

For  his  sake,  to  whom  she  owed  her  life, 
But  lo,  a  tumultuous  pleading  she  could  not  banish, 

For  remembrance  of  an  undying  love  was  rife. 

Love's  confession  and  fond  entreaty  were  in  vain, 

For  Inna  was  too  true  to  deceive  another, 
E'en  though  it  gave  his  true  heart  pain, 

And  she  clung  firmly  to  her  former  lover ; 
"  Oh,"  thought  Inna,  "others  love  and  then  forget, 

Mine  like  a  weight  in  my  bosom  lies, 
Mine  ever  with  memory's  tears  is  wet, 

Why  is  it  that  my  love  never  dies  ?" 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


A  cloudless  day,  a  season  of  inviting  weather, 

Inna  had  partially  regained  her  health, 
She  and  Lord  Chancey  Douglass  stood  on  deck  together, 

Viewing  the  day's  splendor  and  golden  wealth. 

They  heard  a  step  and  a  voice  say  "  step  with  care," 

They  turned  and  saw  it  might  have  been  an  angel's  form, 
An  angel's  face  so  saint-like  fair, 

Indicative  of  no  inward  storm, 

An  invalid  leaning  on  her  father's  arm, 
A  childish  face  and  figure  to  charm  at  once  the  eye, 
And  Inna  saw  with  joy,  rather  than  alarm, 

A  look  from  Douglass  follow  as  she  glided  by. 

The  spell  that  incident  and  idle  fancy  had  created 

Was  broken,  but  to  be  more  firm, 
And  if  by  that  fancy-wrought  attachment  he  was  elated, 

Behold  him  the  true  love  lesson  learn ; 
Clara  Landon  was  a  Southern  belle, 
And  being  in  Inna's  confidence  firmly  now, 

One  day  told  her  romance  ;  Clara  knew  Osgood  well, 

She  said  with  a  soft  blush  on  her  brow. 

Then  into  Inna's  listening,  willing  ears, 

She  poured  the  story  of  his  college  days, 
His  laborious  study,  doubts  and  fears, 

His  thousand  and  one  peculiar  ways ; 
The  excitement  and  commotion  of  his  leaving  home, 

Floating  rumors  that  he'd  run  away  insane, 
The  flying  reports  that  back  to  them  had  come 

Of  his  resolving  health  and  love  to  gain. 


PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  99 


"  Inna,"  said  she,  "  if  it's  he  on  whom  you've  bestowed  your  heart, 

You  may  know  he's  worthy  in  everyway ; 
The  Southern  girls  would  all  with  friends  and  fortune  part 

If  'twould  win  Clarence  Osgood's  love  to-day;" 
There  was  one  girl  I  fancied  he  liked  once, 

'Twas  Alice  Lorraine,  your  brother's  wife, 
But  I  declared  myself  a  presuming  dunce, 

When  he  vowed  he'd  never  have  a  wife. 

11  And,  oh,  Inna,  I  could  easily  have  loved  him,  too, 

But  on  me  he'd  not  even  bestow  a  smile ; 
So  I  soon  learned  it  wouldn't  do 

To  fall  in  love  with  one  so  misanthropic  the  while. 
Now,  ma  belle,  Inna,  I'm  content  if  you  are, 

But  if  you've  gained  ascendency  to  his  heart 
You  may  consider  yourself  a  special  favored  star, 

Who's  won  the  prize  in  Love's  expansive  mart." 

Days  passed  on,  they  reached  the  other  side, 

Time  flew  in  love's  sweet  mysterious  style, 
Till  the  happy  lord  and  victor  with  his  charming  bride, 

Filed  one  morn  up  fair  St.  Maria's  isle. 
Then  with  lovely  Inna  in  their  care 

They  started  for  America's  praiseworthy  land. 
And  Inna  smiled,  for  now  she  knew  her  lover's  name  was  fair, 

That  his  had  never  been  a  murderer's  hand. 

She  thought  of  the  many  a  happy  hour  to  come 
When  she'd  tease  him  about  the  plot  he  played; 

And  pictures  of  her  trans-Atlantic  home 
In  the  chamber  of  her  mind  were  laid. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS 


"  Oh,"  tho't  she,  "  that  he  should  assume  a  blight  on  his  fair  name, 

To  gain  a  love  unbiased,  undying,  true; 
But  on  myself  I  can  cast  no  blame — 

My  darling,  I've  been  true  to  you. 


On  the  shore  of  Lake  Michigan  sits  a  woman  still  fair, 

And  still  with  a  pure  and  youthful  brow, 
Yet  a  pensive  shadow  is  lingering  there, 

Leaving  no  room  for  joy's  bright  glow ; 
Little  Clarence,  a  child  of  four,  plays  merrily  at  her  side, 

Wondering  the  while  at  her  flowing  tears, 
While  she  mournfully  watches  the  tide, 

And  thinks,  "  Oh,  the  gloomy  years!" 

"  Ten  years  ago  on  this  spot  we  met, 

I  found  him  here  with  his  head  lying  low ; 
Oh,  my  lost  darling,  shall  I  ever  forget — 

Forget  thee,  or  that  night,  oh,  no  ! 
Three  years  since  I  watched  thy  parting  breath, 

And  k»ew  thy  promising  life  was  done ; 
True  to  thee  ever  in  life  and  in  death, 

And  for  thee  I'll  haunt  the  shore  of  Lake  Michigan. 


PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  lot 


NEVER  DESPAIR. 


FROM  "FORGET-ME-NOT." 

IF  your  pathway  be  not  smooth, 
And  your  future  look  not  fair, 

Or  you  get  vexed  at  some  little  trifle, 
Oh,  don't  give  up  in  despair. 

Brighter  days  will  come  to  you, 

Days  that  will  be  fair, 
If  you  only  will  have  courage, 

And  not  give  up  in  despair. 

Though  dark  and  dreary  be  your  lot, 
And  fortune  frown  on  you  to-day ; 

To-morrow  your  luck  may  change, 
And  fortune  turn  the  other  way. 

Never  despair,  let  come  what  will, 

Think  there  are  brighter  days  in  store; 

Press  on,  press  on  with  courage  bold 
And  never  despair  any  more. 


102  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


AN  INVENTORY. 


FROM        FORGET-ME-NOT. 

A  ROUGH,  bare  and  broken  floor, 

One  hinge  off  the  only  door, 

A  rusty  stove,  minus  one  leg, 

A  worn  out  cap  on  a  broken  peg, 

Old  hats  and  caps  for  window  lights, 

(They'll  keep  out  storm  on  stormy  nights), 

Three  old  and  broken  plates, 

A  cup,  and  two  saucers  that  are  not  mates, 

One  iron  spoon,  and  part  of  another, 

A  tea-pot  minus  handle  and  cover, 

An  old  kettle,  with  many  a  crack, 

Two  old  spiders  that  handles  lack, 

A  rusty,  worn  out  can, 

One  bottomless  basin,  and  old  tin  pan, 

Parts  of  a  few  knives  and  forks, 

A  jug,  and  a  stack  of  corks, 

A  table  minus  a  leaf  and  leg, 

The  top  and  sides  of  a  liquor  keg ; 

A  woman  crouching  in  perfect  awe, 

Near  a  poor  old  pallet  of  straw, 

On  which  a  haggard  man  lies, 

Uttering  wild  and  piercing  cries ; 

Six  hungry  mouths  that  will  not  be  shut. 

Is  an  inventory  of  a  drunkard's  hut. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  103 


SINGLE  THE  GOLDEN  THREAD. 


There  is  a  curtain  filmy,  and  a  trifle  slender, 

That  screens  the  chamber  of  the  past ; 
All  dreams  bright,  or  dark,  harsh  or  tender 

Are  within,  in  its  portals  cast ; 
And  memory  doth  this  curtain  lift, 

To  show  us  many  a  tangled  web ; 
But  as  the  bright  and  dark  we  sift, 

Let's  single  the  golden  thread. 

As  we  journey  o'er  the  waves  of  the  Sea  of  Life, 

We  meet  its  turbulent  ups  and  downs, 
But  as  we  battle  with  its  avalanche  of  strife, 

Behold  a  smile  amid  the  frowns. 
Life  is  full  we  know  of  roughest  thorns, 

And  bitter,  oft,  its  briny  cup ; 
But  let  us  remember  the  few  sunny  morns 

That  light  our  pathway  up. 

City  of  the  beauteous  South,  so  fair, 

To  thy  arms  I  gladly  came, 
With  many  a  castle  reared  in  air, 

Of  the  sunbeams  to  be  at  my  disposal  lain, 
Lo,  the  airy  structure  fell — the  rain  poured  down, 

But  though  my  heart  sank  down  like  lead, 
As  I  beheld  the  element's  dark  frown, 

I  singled  at  once  the  golden  thread. 


104  PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


What  is  life  ?  one  vast  sea  of  trouble , 

Prosperity  ?  something  that  few  may  hold. 
And  wealth  ?  a  shining,  fickle  bubble, 

That  leads  to  the  selfish  love  of  gold ; 
But  it's  neither  wealth  nor  station's  pass, 

That's  to  make  us  paths  of  joy  tread, 
But  simply  from  Life's  chaotic  mass, 

To  single  the  golden  thread. 

COLUMBIA,  S.  C.,  April  i,  1874. 


"SOMETIME." 


AH,  that  treasured  word  sometime,  ah,  the  joyful  song, 

That  it  merrily  warbles  down  in,  the  heart, 
While  delicious  memories  cluster  and  throng, 

Up  from  the  past,  causing  tears  to  start : 
Girlish  tears,'perchance,  as  the  school  anniversary  nears, 
And  they  must  part,  who've  been  friends  for  years. 

They  part  with  many  an  arranged  prospective  plan, 
And  promises  of  a  future  meeting  chime, 

To  meet  again  in  the  ranks  of  life's  great  van, 
To  meet  in  that  beauteous,  far  off  sometime. 

Sweet  little  treasured  sometime  fills  the  heart   with  joy's  boon, 
As  do  the  matins  of  birds,  when  summer  gay 

Springs  from  the  arms  of  sullen  winter's  gloom, 
And  on  snow-capped  mountains  is  born  rosy  day. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  105 


At  last,  if  life's  thousand  meandering  streams 

Should  never  float  us  nearer  earthly  dreams, 

The  woven  wreaths  of  hope  that  perish, 

And  vanish  in  this  unpitying  clime, 
Air-castle  dreams  we  so  fondly  cherish, 

May  be   realized  'mong  eternal  hills  of  a  celestial  some- 
time. 


OLD  YEAR,  GOOD-BYE. 


AH,  Old  Year,  and  must  I  part  with  thee, 
Must  say  farewell  to  seventy-three  ? 

Ah,  Old  Year,  'tis  with  many  a  tear, 
For  I've  found  thee  true  and  certain ; 
And  what  behind  the  Future's  curtain 

May  for  me  be  lurking  near  ? 
Ah,  thou  hast  brought  me  joy, 
Which  another  year  may  all  destroy, 
And  my  brightest  hopes  belie — 
Old  Year,  and  must  I  say  good-bye  ? 

Ah  |  I'm  with  thee  in  thy  last  hour, 
Recalling  the  many  a  sunny  bower 

In  which  thou  hast  led  with  gentle  tread ! 
Ah,  Old  Year,  my  friend,  I  shall  forget  thee  not, 
Thou  cam'st  with  me  to  this  fair  spot, 

And  here  I  must  leave  thee  dead. 


jo6  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


When  I  return  to  my  Northern  valley  fair, 
Old  Year  thou'lt  not  go  with  me  there ; 
Afar  from  my  native  home  I  see  thee  die, 
Old  Year,  and  must  say  good-bye  ? 

Is  it  strange  that  I  am  sighing,  Old  Year,  to  see  thee  dying, 

While  distance  lies  between 

Me  and  one  familiar  scene? 
Ah,  Old  Year,  I  ask  thee  still  to  linger  near, 
Friend  so  true  and  kind,  stay  a  bit  and  help  me  find 

Some  within  this  far-off  clime, 

Whose  friendship  may  equal  thine. 
Thy  mission's  done,  and  beneath  this  Southern  sky, 
I  whisper  thee,  Old  Year,  good-bye. 

WILMINGTON,  N.  C.,  December  31,  1873. 


LOVE  GOES  AFOOT. 


LUCY  GRAY  is  a  favorite,  she  is  young  and  fair, 
She  is  the  petted  and  only  daughter  of  a  millionaire ; 
And  lo,  on  the  instant  when  her  slightest  wish  is  made, 
As  though  'twere  a  sovereign's  it  is  quickly  obeyed; 
Seemingly  she  hath  everything  heart  could  desire, 
Interests  of  which  she  ne'er  might  weary  or  tire, 
But  listen !  while  she  sits  at  the  lattice  with  closed  eyes, 
Up  through  the  shutter  float  deep-drawn  sighs. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  107 


Lucy  has  suitors  who  are  both  gay  and  grave, 

Some  timid  and  weak,  others  valiant  and  brave ; 

But  she  turns  from  all  smiles  courteous  and  bland, 

Regretting  her  father's  broad  acres  and  extensive  wide  land. 

As  strange  a  tale  you  think  as  ever  was  told, 

That  Lucy  is  sorry  for  father's  bright  gold, 

Yet  she  out  of  her  window  oft  looks  with  a  sigh, 

For  one  lone  thing  that  money  can't  buy. 

Fair  Lucy  tosses  back  each  saucy  curl, 

Wishing  anon  she  were  but  a  poor  man's  girl ; 

She  is  troubled  at  table,  and  troubled  in  bed 

She  worries  and  frets  her  poor  little  head, 

And,  tearfully,  to  papa,  she's  oft  heard  to  say, 

"  Oh,  to  know  who  loves  your  wealth,  and  who  Lucy  Gray  !" 

And  her  papa  smiling  says  to  himself, 

"  I'll  try  and  find  out  for  the  dear  little  elf." 

And  one  day  thro'  the  air  the  startling  news  sailed, 
The  old  millionaire — the  banker  has  failed ; 
And  Lucy  soon  found  by  words  formal  and  cold 
That  she  was  lov'd  less  than  her  father's  vast  gold. 
"  But,"  said  she,  "  tho*  of  my  fortune  I  am  bereft, 
'Twere  best  to  know  the  real  friends  I  have  left." 
But  only  one  entered  the  low  cottage  door 
Who  cared  not  that  Lucy  was  poor. 

And  when'their  fortune  flew  back  one  auspicious  day 
Many  a  fair  glance  was  directed  that  way ; 
And  many  sought  the  maiden  to  greet, 
Who  had  passed  her  coldly  in  the  street. 


io8  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS 


Turning  from  a  score  of  suitors  wealthy  and  bland, 
Waiving  them  back  with  motion  of  hand, 
"  Riches  may  ride  in  a  carriage  gilded  and  gay, 
But  love  goes  afoot,"  murmurs  fair  Lucy  Gray. 


MEMORIAL  DAY. 


To  Mrs.  Johnson,  and   the  other  ladies  of  Atlanta,  who  have 
contributed  to  the  efforts  of  the  day,  these  simple  lines  are  dedicated. 

BLESSED  day,  singled  from  the  rest, 

By  memory's  pure  test, 
To  wreathe  the  soldier's  graves ! 

Strew  floral  gifts  where  they  lie, 

For  surely  God's  eye 
Looks  down  upon  you  who  kindly  and  true ; 

Remember  your  country's  braves ; 
May  Memory's  laurels  foridly  enclose 
Graves  where  the  lov'd  ones  calmly  repose  : 

On  this  beauteous  sunny  soil, 

Where  many  a  Southern  gem  doth  coil 

Round  that  fair  memorial  spot,  the  noble  soldier's  burying  lot, 
Where  the  Southern  sunbeams  shine, 
You,  these  floral  tokens  twine  : 
Wreathe  with  a  tender  thought  and  with  a  tear, 
The  graves  of  those  so  loved  and  dear. 

ATLANTA,  GA.,  April  30,  1874. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  109 


TO  MY  COUSIN  ON  HIS  FIFTEENTH  BIRTHDAY. 



THE  winter  months  are  o'er,  and  March  again  is  here, 

And  though  many  a  rambling  tho't  it  bring, 
I  know  that  you,  my  cousin,  complete  your  fifteenth  year, 

On  this  first  day  of  smiling  Spring; 
And  mid  the  varied  objects  that  claim   my  whole  attention, 

On  which,  perhaps  my  mind  should  dwell, 
Memory  fain  at  this  time  would  mention, 

One  far  away,  I  love  so  well. 
She  wanders  to  you,  lov'd  one,  awhile, 

Though  roving  beneath  this  sunny  clime, 
Fancy  leaps  o'er  the  many  a  weary  mile, 

To  press  my  lips  to  thine. 
Dear  coz.,  enshrined  in  Friendship's  circling  arms, 

With  a  tho't  of  our  many  bright  spent  hours, 
Love  sends  you  through  imagination's  charms, 

A  gem  from  these  Southern  bowers. 

Dear  cousin,  lov'd  playmate  of  days  gone  by, 

Still  prized  friend  of  my  affection, 
I'm  far  to-day  from  thy  cold  Northern  sky, 

My  path  of  life  in  an  opposite  direction : 
Where  flowers  bloom  the  whole  year  long, 

Where  the  magnolia  and  orange  blossoms  wave, 
And  the  warblers  constantly  pour  forth  their  song 

And  golden  hues  the  bright  sky  bathe — 


Iio  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS, 


Here  where  hath  dwelt  quarrel  and  contention, 

Here  where  many  a  gallant  form  once  fell, 
I  sit  to-day,  lov'd  one,  and  my  attention 

Is  led  o'er  mountain  steep  and  flowery  dell — 
Away  from  this  memorable  Southern  spot  to-day, 

To  climb  with  thee  that  gentle  hill-slope, 
Fancies,  how  swift  they  fly !  nor  do  I  bid  them  stay — 

Not  from  thee,  sweet  cousin,  of  many  a  cherished  hope. 

ELIZABETHTOWN,  N.  C.,  March  i,  1874. 


OVER  THE  WAY. 


OVER  the  way  bright  lamps  are  burning, 
And  dainty  fingers  the  music  turning, 

Over  the  way,  over  the  way. 
The  house  is  filled  with  warmth  and  light, 
And  everything  seems  cheerful  and  bright 

Over  the  way,  over  the  way. 

Over  the  way  light  feet  are  tripping, 

And  through  the  Lanciers  are  gayly  skipping, 

Over  the  way,  overt  the  way. 
Loved  ones  are  fondly  lingering  near, 
All  lonely  moments  to  kindly  cheer, 

Over  the  way,  over  the  way. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS,  ill 


Over  the  way  is  drinking  and  feasting, 

And  blithe  the  hearts  that  there  are  beating, 

Over  the  way,  over  the  way ; 
And  some  are  lingering  near  to  prize 
The  gentle  look  from  drooping  eyes 

Over  the  way,  over  the  way. 


Oh,  surely  there  can  be  naught  to  alloy, 

Or  e'en  to  mar  their  peace,  happiness  and  joy, 

Over  the  way,  over  the  way.       ±f' 
Oh,  can  there  be  an  entrance  of  gloom. 
In  that  gorgeously  decorated  room, 

Over  the  way,  over  the  way. 


Ah,  my  friend,  'twill  be  no  sin, 
Come  with  me  and  I'll  usher  you  in, 

Over  the  way,  over  the  way. 
See  her  standing  near  that  floral  stand, 
Her  head  reclining  on  her  hand, 

Over  the  way,  over  the  way. 


Blinding  tears  now  dim  the  sight 

Of  those  eyes,  a  moment  ago  so  bright, 

Over  the  way,  over  the  way — 
Alas  !  alas !  there's  deep  sorrow  there, 
Tho'  the  external  sesmed  so  fair, 

Over  the  way,  over  the  way. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


And  thus  it  is  where'er  we  go, 

All  have  trouble  we  may  not  know, 

Over  the  way,  over  the  way. 
We  should  be  content  with  our  own  lot, 
Whether  it  be  in  mansion  or  cot, 
And  never  sigh  for  what  seems  gay, 

Over  the  way,  over  the  way. 


RESIGNATION. 


A  WILL,  oh  !  Father,  submissive  to  Thine, 

Though  many  a  wish  we  have  to  resign, 

On  the  platform  that  Ambition  can  make, 

When,  lo,  we  see  the  platform  break ! 

Of  course  we  cannot  tell  the  reason  why, 

For  it  seemed  firm  to  our  earthly  eye ; 

But  that  eye  that  watches  o'er  wrecks  of  Time 

Is  clearer  far  than  yours  and  mine, 

That  o'er  our  lives  a  vigil  keeps, 

An  eye,  an  eye  that  never  sleeps ! 

And  can  we  not  the  power  find 
To  make  our  will  to  His  resigned  ? 
It  may  come  hard  to  some  at  first, 
Who  for  Life's  painted  baubles  thirst, 
For  every  emergency  we  must  be  prepared 
To  drop,  if  needful,  pleasures  shared, 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  113 


For  choicest  idols  shattered  may  lie 
Broken  fragments  before  the  eye, 
And  many  a  dream  gilded  brightly  o'er 
May  vanish  our  very  gaze  before  ; 
And  many  a  gem  we  think  to  grasp 
Perish  e'en  within  our  clasp; 
But,  oh,  to  say  :  Thy  grace  impart, 
Thy  will,  oh,  God,  within  my  heart ! 


TO  GEORGIA  AND  KATIE  MARSH. 


MY  friends,  we  part,  and  what  can  I,  what  shall  I  say 
Just  now,  that  were  not  as  pieces  of  broken  clay  ? 

How  sternly  Friendship  points  to  a  tower  of  her  erection, 
To  the  warm  place  you've  gained  in  my  affection ! 

A  spot  that  shall  be  neither  unfading  nor  small, 
Remains,  henceforth,  for  you  in  Memory's  hall ! 

Health,  friends,  and  fortune  now  smile  on  you, 
But  should  there  come  a  time  they'd  prove  untrue, 

Love  and  gratitude  unbroken  need  no  mend, 
In  your  Northern  guest  then  find  a  friend. 

A  stranger  far  from  her  Northern  valley  fair 
Had  come  to  breathe  your  Southern  air ; 


PA  TCHWORK—  JUVENILE  POEMS. 


And  among  the  warm  hearts  the  South  doth  hold, 
Hath  found  two  unfading  gems  of  gold  ! 

This  rare  gift,  culled  from  your  floral  bowers, 
Will  oft  remind  me  of  these  happy  hours ! 

I  shall  ne'er  forget  you  on  Life's  treacherous  sea, 
And,  oh,  my  friends,  do  you  oft  remember  me  ? 

But,  hark !  the  engine  shrieks,  the  parting  moment's  nigh, 
Star  friends  of  the  sunny  South,  good-bye  ! 

Here  we  met  to  part,  and  part  to  meet,  perhaps  no  more 
But  Faith  points  to  a  bright,  reunion  Shore  ! 
AUGUSTA,  Ga. 


ONLY  JESSIE. 


(INCIDENTAL.) 

"  Who  is  she,  sister,  that  young  girl, 

Lovely,  yet  with  a  sad  expression  on  her  face, 
Dark  eyes  and  hair  and  tangled  curl, 

And  more,  such  a  sweet  and  winning  grace  ! 
I  met  her  on  the  stairs — there  is  a  charm  about  hei 

Her  cheeks  with  modest  blushes  glowing!" 
"  Why,"  said  Florence,  "  so  much  talk  about  her  ? 

It's  only  Jessie,  the  girl  who  does  our  sewing." 


PA  TCH  WORK—  JU  VENILE  POEMS.  1 1 5 


*' Only  Jessie,"  murmured  Captain  Wilbur  Lee, 

"  And  she  must  drudge  from  '  morn  till  dewy  eve,' 
No  sympathy  for  '  only  Jessie* — we  will  see, 

Here  Fate  may  a  web  of  romance  weave  ; 
Ha,  ha,  Florence  and  Blanche,  how  they  would  scold 

Did  they  dream  such  a  tho't  were  in  my  head ; 
But  I  never  cared  for  fashion  or  shining  gold, 

And  begged  a  path  of  Love  to  tread." 

On  Blank  street  there's  a  happy  home  to-day, 

Two  contented  hearts  and  no  repining — 
Two  sunny  lives  ever  blithe  and  gay, 

Seeing  to  every  cloud  a  silver  lining. 
Around,  the  blossoms  of  peace  twine  a  garland  fair, 

And  the  rippling  murmur  of  Love  doth  glide ; 
Captain  Wilbur  Lee  dwells  there, 

With  "  only  Jessie"  by  his  side. 


COMMENCEMENT  DAY. 


THE  moments  fly  !  I  lay  my  book  aside, 

For  Fancy  travels  o'er  miles  that  lie  between ; 
How  swift,  how  swift,  oh,  thoughts,  ye  glide 

To  that  bright,  eventful  scene  ! 
Read  !  study  !  not  in  this  sacred  bit  of  time, 

For,  hark !  the  clock  strikes  one, 
And  by  the  letters  I've  counted  in  a  line, 

That  oration  already  has  begun. 


Ii6  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Childish,  weak,  perhaps  you  say, 

'Twere  weaker  still  to  let  memory  slumber, 
And  forget,  on  this  anniversary  day, 

The  brightest  Star  of  all  the  number — 
The  brightest,  then,  the  brightest  now, 

Perhaps  I've  reason  for  praise  so  strong? 
None,  but  to  twine  laurels  o'er  the  brow, 

Where  Conscience  tells  that  they  belong. 

Memory,  Memory,  thy  trust  still  keep, 

That  sonorous  voice  rises  clear, 
Then  falls  with  a  cadence  thrilling,  deep — 

Memory,  Memory,  linger  near. 
Fain  at  his  feet  I'd  lay  a  floral  gift, 

But  Fate  decreed  it  should  not  be ; 
But,  oh,  Memory,  thy  filmy  curtain  uplift, 

And  do  thy  duty  well  for  me ! 

Waft  to  him  o'er  gentle  Fancy's  wing 

My  wishes  for  him  this  hour; 
A  substitute  for  the  gift  I'd  bring, 

From  the  choicest  floral  bower; 
For  in  this  distant  Western  clime  to-day 

A  prayer  for  him  arises  now, 
That  many  a  laurel  and  bright  bay 

May  twine  o'er  that  noble  brow. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  117 


THE  AGE  OF  SCANDAL. 


WE'VE  had  the  age  of  iron,  age  of  silver  and  age  of  gold, 

An  many  etceteras  we  could  name, 
And  now  we  have  the  age  of  scandal  unblushingly  bold, 

The  age  of  scandal  and  of  shame. 

Why  does  a  dark  cloud  hang  o'er  the  world  to-day? 

Threatening  the  downfall  of  earth's  great  guide, 
And,  lo,  as  we  from  this  great  sorrow  turn  away, 

Minor  shadows  of  the  kind  we  see  on  every  side. 

Fierce  tempests  are  impending  life's  frail  barge, 
And  we  gaze  at  the  boisterous  elements  with  pity. 

While  one  storm-cloud  hangs  o'er  the  world  at  large, 
Smaller  ones  environ  each  town  and  city. 

Jersey  C  ity  and  Canada,  one  place  is  no  safer  than  the  rest, 
We  ask  that  Fate  may  so  the  tongue  of  slander  handle, 

As  to  divert  such  clouds  from  this  Garden  of  the  West; 
For  we  live  in  a  net-work  wove  in  the  Age  of  Scandal. 

CHICAGO,  Aug.  27,  1874. 


U8  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


VALLEY  OF  THE  ORISKANY. 


VALLEY  of  Learning  !  I'll  not  forget  thee  now, 

Valley  that  I've  oft  and  e'er  admired! 
For  in  thy  portals  Fate  twined  o'er  my  brow, 

All  that  has  e'er  my  poor  pen  inspired. 
The  poetic  muse  first  met  me  in  thy  inviting  arms, 
Delightful  nook,  I'd  not  deny  thy  charms. 

Yet   I    think  of  thee  as  a  gem  off  which    the    gilding   has   been 

swept, 

I  lov'd  thee  once,  think  kindly  of  thee  still, 
In  a  corner  of  my  heart  thy  picture's  kept ; 

But  thy  allurements  for  me  have  lost  their  thrill, 
Ah,  Valley  of  the  Oriskany,  model  for  an  artist's  eye, 
Thou  could'st  hardly  lure  me  from  haunts  beneath  this  western 
skv! 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  1 1 g 


FATAL  FRIENDSHIP. 


The  title  of  the  following  poem  is  taken  from  a  Journal  article 
entitled  "Fatal  Friendship"  and  referring  to  the  scandal  topic  of  the 
day. 
FRIENDSHIP  warms  our  hearts  as  sunshine  warms  the  flowers, 

Refreshes  us  just  as  rain  revives  the  grass. 
Friendship  is  a  fair  shrub  in  this  cold  world  of  ours, 

But  there  is  a  limit  o'er  which  none  should  pass. 
Prize  that  Friendship  that  gets  of  Purity  its  birthright  natal, 
But  beware  that  friendship  known  as  fatal. 

Friendship  of  innate  goodness  of  mind,  heart  and  soul, 

From  the  deep  well-spring  of  virtue  born, 
Such  should  we  place  on  Friendship's  roll} 

And  from  all  other  turn  with  scorn. 

Pure  and  wholesome  friendship  we  would  cherish, 

Words  and  tho'ts  connected  in  a  kindly  link, 
A  closer  friendship !  let  e'en  the  base  tho't  perish, 

'Tis  a  dangerous  and  polluted  brink. 

A  closer  friendship,  the  very  thought  we  hate ! 

Nothing  were  friendship  that  were  not  pure  ; 
Friendship  is  to  refine  the  character  and  elevate, 

And  not  the  curse  of  hell  procure. 


120  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


When  friendly  word   and  acts  have  turned  to  guile, 

Then  friendship  has   turned  to  gall, 
Stamp  on  it  with  a  scornful,  bitter  smile, 

Ere  you  let  it  make  you  fall. 

What  is  friendship,  we  beg  and  seek  to  know  ? 

Something  to  do  good  and  help  one  up, 
And  not  with  honeyed  words  of  flattery  seek  one's  woe, 

Through  Satan's  sin-filled  cup ! 

Sympathy !  perchance  the  world  may  blame, 

But  for  those  who  step  on   shallow  friendship's  ground, 

And  through  its  vestibule  are  brought  to  shame, 
There's  no  sympathy  or  patience  to  be  found. 

Spurn  one  who  on  the  plea  of  friendship's  chaste  relation, 

Steps  through  decorum's  closed  gate  ; 
Love  one  who'd  steal  a  priceless  reputation  ? 

Be  the  burden  of  the  song  to  hate. 

Who'd  trust  a  heart  with  that  unstable  creature, 
Who's  dignity  lies  in  Impropriety's  chaotic  mass, 

Push  him  back  for  one  who  has  virtue's  feature, 

Who  minds  the  limit  of  friendship  none  should  pass. 

We  invite  Friendship  that  from  purity  has  its  birthright  natal, 

But  abhor  a  friendship  known  as  fatal. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  121 


RESPONSIVE  LINES. 


ON    RECEIVING    AN  EULOGY    ON       FORGET-ME-NOT. 

MANY  long  months  may  have  rolled  away, 

Cloaking  a  mystery  behind  their  curtain, 
That  mysteries  will  come  to  light   some  day, 

Is  possible,  yea,  almost  certain; 
Though  mountains  and  rivers  may  intervene, 

Twixt  the  mystery  discovered  and  mystery  unraveled, 
And  she  who  carried  the  mythical  dream,     , 

O'er  long  miles  have  traveled, 
Yet  in  due  time  the  obscured  cometh  to  light, 
And  the  hidden  link  is  brought  into  sight. 

Ah,  it  may  have  seemed  locked  in  portals  on  high, 

Safe  from  we  mortals  of  earth, 
Free  and  secure  from  every  eye, 

Only  one  knows  its  origin,  one  knows  its  birth, 
So  sure  there's  never  a  fear  nor  a  doubt — 

"  She  can't  know  the  author  of  the  lines  I  send — " 
But  lo,  a  day  when  the  truth  comes  out. 

My  modest,  respected  frieno), 

The  mystery's  author  I've  seen  ;  hence  gratitude  o'ertwines, 
And  stamps  her  signal  'mid  the  friendly  lines. 

My  grateful  and  heartfelt  thanks  let  me  now  return, 

For  those  delicate  eulogistic  lines, 
For  the  sentiment  so  kindly  in  its  turn 

Bestowed  on  my  inexperienced  rhymes. 


122  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


From  many  a  lip  I've  heard  fair  eulogies  start, 
To  rest  on  the  childish  tho'ts  there  told, 

While  many  have  given  them  in  their  heart, 
A  warm  spot  e'er  to  hold ; 

But  one  hath  penned  what  lips  could  not  tell, 

Fairest  praise  from  Modesty's  pure  well. 


And  doth  my  feeble  rhymes  contain  "  a  charm  ?" 

May  God  make  them  more  and  more, 
And  do  they  "  console  mid  life's  alarms  " 

And  on  her  turbulent  shore? 
Have  they  painted  "  landscapes  in  castle  dreams," 

Held  one  "  fancy  to  inspire," 
May  the  fairy  muse  still  search  for  scenes, 

To  tune  her  crippled  lyre  : 

Do  the  simple  thoughts  o'er  my  first  effort's  page, 
Lead  one  back  to  realms  of  "boyhood's  age  ?" 


A  voice  than  others  clearer,  firmer,  more  sublime, 

Rises  oft  on  imagination's  wing, 
And  through  the  filmy  mists  of  gathering  time, 

Will  its  clarion  accents  ring: 
That  voice,  and  the  hand  that  penned  those  lines, 

Must  in  fancy  be  linked  together, 
Both  from  Intellect's  deepest  mines, 

O'er  Progress'  rolling  river. 

Words  and  writing  marked  by  one  true  would  not  bear  blame, 
Surely  their  resource  must  be  the  same. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  123 


Poems  not  from  a  standard  author's  pen, 

"  Inspiring"  you  generously  call, 
And  give  them  with  the  author  then, 

A  place  in  Memory's  hall ; 
Well,  she  is  grateful  to  the  mystic  Nymph  of  Fate, 

Who  explored  the  mystery's  ranks, 
And  pointed  to  the  one  though  late, 

Who  merits  and  receives  alike  her  thanks. 
Accept  the  lines  that  lame  Poesy  deigns  to  lend, 
With  the  kindly  wishes  of  "  a  friend." 

BOSTON,  August,  1873. 


DARK  HOURS. 


OH,  the  hours  may  be  dark,  my  friend, 

But  I  ask  you  not  to  despair, 
For  Providence  in  time  will  surely  send 

A  path  for  you  more  fair. 
Black  as  night  may  be  the  hours, 

Instead  of  fainting,  work  and  pray, 
And  soon  bright  sunny  flowers, 

Will  bloom  along  your  way  ; 
You  need  not  accuse  me  now  of  preaching, 

One  thing  to  talk,  another  to  do, 
Were  it  not  for  experience's  bitter  teaching, 

This  book  were  not  before  you. 


124  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Just  as  blank  despair  by  me  did  stand, 
With  her  tempting  voice  to  urge, 

God  reached  out  His  own  right  hand, 
And  drew  me  from  her  verge. 


SALUTATORY  POEMS. 


COMPOSED    FOR    A    READING    IN    THE    SOUTH. 

MY  friends,  while  you  this  evening  come  from  homes  so  warm 
and  bright, 

And  know  the  gentle  Southern  breeze  that  blows, 
I  meet  you  a  stranger  here  to-night, 

As  the  day  sinketh  into  calm  repose  ; 
Yes,  I've  come  from  yonder  Northern  valley  fair, 

Where  many  a  cherished  memory  liej, 
That  I  may  the  healthful  breezes  share, 

Beneath  your  sunny,  Southern  skies; 
That  I  within  these  walls  some  friends  may  find, 

Is  there  a  doubt  or  danger  ? 
Oh,  will  the  hand  of  friendship,  kind, 

Welcome  the  Northern  stranger? 
Ah,  I'm  far  to-night  from  scenes  and  friends  so  dear, 
You'll  not  refuse  a  smile  the  stranger's  heart  to  cheer. 


PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  1 2 5 


It  is  with  feelings  that  rise  from  the  well-springs  of  emotion, 

That  before  you  I  now  appear, 
That  aside  from  the  noisy  world's  commotion 

For  a  while  I  meet  you  here. 
But  from  the  many  thot's  that  to  our  minds  may  cluster. 

May  but  pleasant  ones  be  singled, 
May  we  here  forget  life's  fantastic  bluster, 

As  though  in  it  we  had  not  mingled : 
Let's  every  misty  shadow  far  from  us  cast, 

Knowing  God  doth  all  things  well.  « 

Come,  dove  of  Peace,  dispel  the  shadows  of  the  past, 

Henceforth  with  us  to  dwell, 

And  as  thro'  gratitude's  dewy  tear  we  greet  this  shining  star, 
May  no  cloud  the  beauteous  vision  mar. 


Ah,  ye  winning  South,  which  Fancy  hath  painted  many  a  time. 

With  thy  brilliant  and  extensive  charms 
Glowing  like  the  sparkles  of  ruby  wine, 

Within  thy  fair,  encircling  arms  ! 
Beautiful  are  my  Northern  scenes  and  fine, 

And  some  'twere  sad  to  leave, 
But  o'er  the  beauties  of  this  mild  and  genial  clime, 

Friendship  must  her  laurels  weave  ; 
I've  left  haunts  watered  by  affection's  showers, 

Yet  says  Justice's  e'er  impartial  mouth, 
Thou'st  found  a  recompense  within  the  bowers, 

Of  the  radiant,  sunny  South  ; 
Henceforth  the  smiling  South  will  hold  a  spot, 
Too  bright  in  Memory  to  be  forgot. 


126  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


As  onward  sweepeth  the  ceaseless  river  of  Time, 

There'll  be  a  picture  on  Memory's  page, 
That  will  brighter  and  still  brighter  shine, 

When  these  eyes  are  dimmed  by  age  ; 
That  picture  round  which  pleasant  thoughts  will  e'er  abound, 

Spotless  pure  and  all  untainted, 
Will  be  my  first  reception  on  your  ground, 

In  brightest  colors  painted  ; 
Ah,  inviting  South,  thy  embrace  is  large  and  wide, 

Thy  welcome  frank  and  free, 
And  thou'st  now  a  stranger  to  thy  side, 

Whose  good  wishes  are  for  thee  ; 
May  Prosperity  shed  o'er  thee  her  brightest  flowers 
And  Peace  e'er  dwell  within  thy  charming  bowers. 


THE  OLD  OAK  TREE. 


AH,  yes,  'tis  standing  firmly  as  ever, 

Tho'  twenty  years  have  slipped  away, 
Since  we  three  boys  sat  together, 

Under  its  shade  that  Autumn  day ; 
Three  of  us  young  and  void  of  care, 

Already  yearning  to  win  young  Fame 
And  building  castles  in  the  air, 

Each  carved  on  the  Oak  his  name. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  127 


I  see  it  again !  but  lo,  remorseless  Time 

Has  borne  changes  on  his  wing, 
Leaving  of  those  three  names,  but  mine, 

A  picture  of  that  happy  day  to  bring  ; 
And  of  the  other  two  you  wish  me  tell  ? 

'Neath  the  cruel  sea  one  has  his  bed, 
The  other  at  distant  Vicksburg  fell, 

And  there  they  found  him  dead. 

"Ah,"  said  Ben,  on  that  memorable  day, 

Just  twenty  years  gone  by, 
"  Across  the  Ocean,  fleet  and  gay 

My  ships  shall  meet  the  eye." 
Said  Ned  :  "  I'll  be  a  hero  in  my  time," 

And  his  cheek  flushed  as  he  spoke; 
But  there  remaineth  now  but  mine, 

Of  the  names  carved  ©n  the  Oak. 


THE  LOST  PHOTOGRAPH. 


GONE!  the  little  miniature  I've  treasured  so  long, 

Rudely  torn  from  its  resting  place, 
Who  else  can  prize  the  smile  and  the  song 

That  clustered  around  that  face  ? 
Gone !  yet  from  memory  it  shall  not  depart,. 
'Tis  firmly  engraven  on  the  tablets  of  heart. 


128  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Gone  !  and  is  it  weakness  now  to  shed  tears 

O'er  that  prized  gem  of  art? 
Cherished  picture  that  love  alone  endears,' 

Live  in  the  precincts  of  my  heart : 
Yea,  live  for  aye  in  Memory's  fond  clasp, 
Picture  oft  hugged  by  affection's  warm  grasp. 

"  My  darling  girl,"  "  my  dear  little  pet," 

And  I  repose  in  thy  arms  once  more; 
And,  friend,  dearest  but  one,  I  see-thee  yet, 

'Smiles  lingering  thy  loved  face  o'er. 
Ah,  papa,  dear  papa,  with  grief  I'm  near  wild, 
They've  taken  thy  picture,  so  dear  to  thy  child. 

I  feel  ready  to  die,  yet  must  I  live, 

And  let  go  the  treasure  I've  pressed; 
Much  else  is  gone,  greater  in  value  yet  more  would  I  give 

For  that  than  all  of  the  rest : 

Wicked  hands  robbed  me  of  that  prized  little  gem, 
Methinks  dark  shadows  ever  must  haunt  them. 

CHICAGO,  August  i,  1874. 


DEATH  OF  UNA  MILLER. 


LOVELY  LINA,  child  of  promise,  bright  and  fair. 
While  thy  gentle  form  we  e'er  shall  miss, 

From  this  misty  world  of  grief  and  care, 
Thou  hast  entered  eternal  bliss. 


PA  TCH  WORK—yU  VENILE  POEMS.  \  29 

Ah,  yes,  when  we  look  on  the  pains  of  thy  brief  years, 

Thy  meek  and  patient  mien, 
We  quickly  quell  all  doubts  and  fears — 

No  shadow  comes  between. 

No  shadow,  Lina,  dear,  our  hopes  to  mar, 

In  the  gem-like  home  beyond  the  sky, 
We  see  thee,  saint-like,  angelic  star 

Of  the  angel's  choir  on  High. 

Life's  road  is  mountainous  and  hard  to  tread, 

Its  hills  are  rough  and  steep ; 
But  thou,  loved  one,  wilt  no  more  tread 

Its  abysses,  dark  and  deep. 

Lovely  Lina,  child  of  broad  affection, 

So  young,  amiable,  good  and  pure, 
How  could  we  let  thee  go  but  to  His  protection 

That  will  for  aye  endure  ? 

But  God's  promise  floats  upon  our  ears, 

We  have  lain  thee  in  his  arms, 
To  hold  thee  e'er  from  grief  and  fears, 

And  free  from  life's  alarms. 

And  when  we've  walked  this  dismal  road, 

Till  its  burdens  all  are  o'er, 
May  we,  when  we  drop  its  heavy  load, 

Meet  again  to  part  no  more. 


130  PA  TCH  WORK—JU  VENILE  POEMS. 


AN  ARGUMENT  ON  FIRST  LOVE. 


AFFIRMATIVE    BY    F.    R.    HAFLAND. 

THE  gem  you'd  win  for  aye  to  rest, 

Upon  your  warm,  your  loyal  breast — 

Though  her  charms  excel  every  other, 

She  must  never  have  loved  another ; 

Nay,  not  only  that  you  ask,  but  more, 

Not  only  must  she  ne'er  have  loved  before, 

But  not  a  feeling  from  Affection's  well, 

In  its  ever-flowing,  curving  bend, 

Must  have  been  bestowed  on  a  former  friend ; 

And  still,  again,  you'd  have  her  tell, 

With  a  first-love  accented  tone  of  voice 

That  you  are  herjirst,  her  only  choice 

Excuse  me  if  the  liberty  I  take 

To  accuse  you  of  a  slight  mistake; 

Yet  dictating  Conscience  assures 

That  opinions  differ  widely, 

The  argument  we  will  settle  mildly — 

Allow  me  my  opinion,  I  leave  you  yours. 

Remote  from  cities  gay  a  maiden  lived 

Within  a  sylvan  dell, 
Of  fashion's  votaries  she  knew  but  little 

And  drank  from  Nature's  well ; 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  131 


Artless  and  graceful  she  had  grown, 

But  suitors  alas  she'd  none ; 

In  fact  the  number  was  small  who  knew  her, 

Her  intimate  associates  were  fewer. 

To  that  glen,  tired  of  city  airs  and  graces, 

A  wealthy  stranger  came  ; 
His  was  the  manliest  of  faces, 

He  bore  an  honored  name ; 
And  in  this  rustic,  woodland  glade, 
He  woes  the  simple,  trusting  maid. 

She  loved  him,  for  she  knew  no  other, 

But  e'er  three  years  glided  by 
She  bestowed  her  love  upon  another, 

Who  chanced  to  charm  her  eye. 
He'd  said  :  "  If  e'er  I  form  that  connection 
I  must  be  the  first  of  her  affection." 

Another  who  had  won  many  lovers, 
At  last  on  one  let  her  true  love  rest — 

"  I  love  you,"  said  she,  "  above'  all  others. 
If  not  my  first  love,  e'er  my  best ;" 

And  who  with  so  mature  a  love  would  part, 

Tho'  childish  fancies  had  dwelt  within  the  heart  ? 


MORAL. 

SEEK  not  the  rose  o'er  which  bushes  twine. 

Concealing  it  from  the  eye, 
But  that  which  hangs  on  the  visible  vine, 

Nodding  to  passers-by ; 


PA  TCH  WORK—  JUVENILE  POEMS. 


That  hath  diffused  its  perfume  perhaps  upon  many 

But  remaineth  unyielding  yet ; 
For  difficult  to  be  plucked  by  any, 

Surely  a  prize  to  get — 
The  rose  that  so  many  have  tried  to  gain, 

Then  have  had  to  let  fall, 
They  have  tried,  and  tried  in  vain, 

It  yieldeth  to  you  above  them  all : 
Think  not  its  brightest  perfume  wasted 

If  some  have  imbibed  its  sweetness, 
They  have  never  won,  have  never  tasted, 

What  gives  your  life  completeness  : 
Sympathy  may  have  caused  it  with  some  smiles  to  part, 

To  brighten  another's  view, 
But  that  gem  of  all — the  faithful  heart — 

Remaineth  true  to  you. 


READY  TO  GO. 


"  I'LL  be  all  ready,  you  see,  to  go," 
And  her  bright  eyes  were  all  aglow ; 
"  When  papa  comes  he'll  be  in  a  hurry, 
Then,  you  see,  he  won't  have  to  worry; 
And  papa  never  likes  us  to  be  late, 
This  time  I'll  not  make  him  wait; 
Better  be  ready  and  not  to  go, 
Than  go  and  not  be  ready,  you  know." 


PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  133 


But  the  hours  went  slowly  by, 

And  papa  came  not  nigh  : 

Bright  spots  tinged  the  tiny  cheek, 

And  in  less  than  one  short  week 

A  messenger  came  in  at  the  door, 

Glided  swiftly  across  the  floor, 

And  bore  the  darling  of  that  home  away 

Into  one  long,  unending  day. 

One  sweet  tho't  came  as  they  laid  her  low, 

Their  lovely  idol  was  ready  to  go. 


LINES  TO  THE  OLD  YEAR. 


OLD  year,  thy  weeks  and  months  have  fled  away, 
Many  a  sunny  hour  and  golden  day, 
Mingled  with  shadows  by  the  way, 

Yet  now  we  heave  a  sigh  : 
Many  a  blessing  thou  hast  brought, 
With  happiness  and  wisdom  fraught, 
Many  a  lesson  hast  thou  taught, 

But  now,  old  year,  good  bye  ! 

Oft  the  marriage  bells  have  rung, 
Alike  the  funeral  songs  been  sung, 
And  Time  his  harpstrings  oft  has  strung, 
His  sacred  duty  to  not  belie ; 


134  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Thou'st  brought  joys  too  bright  to  last, 
And  some  with  shadows  overcast, 
But  thy  work  is  in  the  chamber  of  the  Past. 
Old  Year,  Old  Year,  good  bye ! 


IN  MEMORY  OF  GEORGE  E.  ARCHER. 

George  E.  Archer  was  a  member  of  the  Y.  M.  C,  Association  of 
Chicago,  to  which,  and  his  friends,  these  lines  are  respectfnl.'y  in- 
scribed. 

WE  this  slight  poetic  tribute  bring  as  a  memorial  token, 

For  again  we  behold  the  Association  number  broken; 

Yea,  Death  again  with  cold  unyielding  hand, 

Hath  left  a  vacant  seat  within  this  golden  band, 

And  now  as  from  time  to  time  we  gather  here, 

And  miss  the  voice  so  wont  to  greet  our  ear, 

And  see  that  familiar  form  no  more, 

And  know  'twill  never  enter  the  Lyceum  door, 

At  the  reunion  hour  may  Memory  gently  stand, 

Tenderly  recalling  this  bright  star  of  the  band. 

Gone  to  those  bright  realms  where  no  sorrow  enters, 
But  fondest  tho't  around  thy  memory  centers; 
Thou'st  joined  that  choir  where  melodious  anthems  clear, 
Are  ringing  sweetly  throughout  an  endless  year, 
Free  from  the  boisterous  waves  of  sin  and  strife, 
Ended  thus  early  the  contest  in  thy  Battle  of  Life. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  135 


There  storm-clouds  of  trouble  burst  not  around. 
And  the  genuine  spirit  of  peace  doth  abound, 
While  here  we  mourn  over  the  loss  of  our  band, 
There's  rejoicing  on  that  shining  strand. 

Gone,  ana  we  Know  thy  earthly  work  is  done, 

Yet  thy  hand  was  ever  a  helping  one, 

And  long  on  Life's  changeful,  uncertain  sea, 

Will  the  Association  cherish  memories  of  thee ; 

And  'tis  a  comfort  now  to  each  stricken  heart, 

To  know  that  thou  acted  so  goodly  a  part. 

We  behold  marks  of  good  works  on  every  side, 

While  with  us  thou  stemmed  Life's  varying  tide, 

Traces  of  good  deeds  are  not  obliterated  by  time's  sands, 

They're  woven  in  memory's  encircling  bands. 

The  Lyceum  meets  the  same,  yet  not  the  same, 

For  it  crosses  from  its  recor^  one  endearing  name, 

Blotted  from  our  earthly,  joined  unto  another, 

A  record  pure  enrolls  the  name  of  our  departed  brother, 

That  list  bears  the  names  of  those  who've  gone  to  rest, 

Of  those  who've  passed  life's  trial  test. 

Gone  from  our  midst,  we  close  our  tribute  with  a  sigh, 

Brother  of  our  affection  we  bid  thee  now  good-bye ; 

And  when  life  with  its  "  ups  and  downs"  is  o'er, 

May  the  Association  meet  on  that  farther  shore. 


136  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


THE  BROKEN  PROMISE. 


FAR  from  his  Southern  home,  Harry  Bowden  came, 

To  the  embrace  of  a  beauteous  Northern  glen, 
To  the  walls  of  an  Alma  Mater  of  undying  fame, 

That  had  sent  forth  authors,  orators  and  statesmen ; 
And  in  that  work  that  Art  and  Nature  smiled  on, 

While  storing  his  head  with  useful  knowledge, 
He  learned  a  lesson  easier  far  to  con, 

Than  any  he  found  in  college,  j 

The  words  were  easy,  "my  pet,"  "  dear,"  and   "dove," 

The  text-book  easy  throughout  to  learn, 
The  oft-repeated  words  of  never-fading  love, 

Held  in  Fate's  romantic  urn  ; 
The  object  of  his  affection  was  fair  Lucy  Blish, 

He  was  rich,  and  she  was  poor,   'tis  true, 
But  a  prettier  sight  to  see  one  could  not  wish, 

For  love  o'er  them  his  fairest  mantel  threw. 

Lucy  was  a  widow's  child ;  their  only  dower 

Was  a  spot  of  ground  and  cottage  home, 
Lucy  knew  little  of  fashion,  being  Nature's  modest  flower. 

And  Nature  by  her  had  justice  'done  ; 
To  her  youthful  eyes  unused  to  fashion  seeing, 

Her  Southern  lover,  with  his  brave,  ancestral  name, 
Was  a  great  and  glorious  being, 

In  whose  keeping  her  first  fond  love  she'd  lain. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  137 


Time  flew !  how  rapidly  to  these  two  lovers ! 

All  too  swift  and  gay  to  tell; 
What  a  volume  of  joy  or  sorrow  a  small  space  covers, 

And  Harry  bid  his  college  home  farewell ! 
They  parted  with  many  a  token  love  bedew'd, 

With  many  a  promise  that  naught  should  sever, 
With  many  a  glowing  description  strewed, 

Of  love  that  should  live  forever. 


Harry  returned  to  his  own  proud  sunny  soil, 

Where  mother  and  sister,  with  arrow  pointed, 
Aimed  his  fair  love  dreams  to  foil ; 

It  took  effect,  and  lo,  disjointed, 
The  love  four  years  had  wove  together — 

He  could  not  endure  the  tempest's  hover — 
A  year  sped  by — a  farewell  letter, 

He  loved  her  still — but  all  was  over. 

V 

Lucy's  mother  died — the  cottage  house  was  sold, 

The  scanty  avails  were  hugged  with  care, 
As  the  miser  doats  o'er  his  hoarded  gold, 

Did  Lucy  doat  o'er  her  treasured  share  ; 
Love,  with  friends  and  fortune  was  resigned, 

If  not,  'twas  carefully  'mong  by-gones  lain, 
Henceforth,  the  culture  of  her  mind, 

Was  to  be  her  sole  objective  aim. 


138  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Five  years  have  joined  the  gone-by  ones, 

The  bells  of  Charleston  a  merry  peal  are  ringing, 
Through  the  magnolia  grove  a  wedding  group  now  comes, 

While  gay  voices  a  marriage  tune  are  singing, 
For  Harry  Bowden  bestows  his  hand,  not  heart,  to-day, 

On  one  whom  fortune  hath  richly  blest, 
The  haughty  heiress,  dark-eyed  Edith  May, 

His  mother's  choice  from  all  the  rest. 


And  among  the  many  belles  assembled  there, 

Was  one  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes, 
Not  only  was  she  youthful,  wealthy,  beloved  and  fair, 

But  the  brilliant  author  of  "  Sunny  Skies ;" 
And  the  low  murmured   words  "  she's  here," 

Sounded  through  the  densely  crowded  room, 
That  name  fell  on  Harry  Bowden  "s  ear, 

As  an  omen  of  future  gloom. 


Long  Branch !  and  they  met  again  on  that  fair  spot, 

After  five  years  more  had  fled, 
He'd  been  true  to  Edith,  though  sorrow  had  been  his  lot, 

For  'twas  a  wild,  unloving  life  she  led. 
Two  years  before,  she  died,  and  now  his  intense  wish, 

While  anew  his  never-forgotten  love  was  burning, 
Was  to  gain  again  the  love  of  Lucy  Blish, 

Was  her  old  affection,  too,  returning  ? 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  139 


The  night  was  calm  and  breezy,  the  air  was  soft  and  delicious, 

The  spot  all  that  one  could  wish, 
The  moon-lit  hour  was  surely  propitious, 

But  oh,  world-renowned  and  stately  Lucy  Blish  ! 
Did  passionate  words  of  love  so  eloquently  arranged, 

E'er  fall  on  such  deaf  ears  ?  ah,  never ! 
Said  she,  and  the  passive  face  remained  unchanged, 

"Your  promise  broken,  was  broken  forever. " 


A  LEGACY. 


PERCHANCE  you  are  despondent,  with  weariness  cast  down, 

Because  you  haven't  wealth  and  fame, 
But  oh,  dispel  at  once  that  quickly  |gathering  frown, 

If  you've  still  your  spotless  name ; 
A  legacy  more  priceless  far  than  gold, 
A  legacy  whose  value  is  untold. 
Avalanches  of  trouble  may  roll  around, 

But  there'll  be  a  path  to  lead  you  out  some  way, 
If  only  you  step  on  the  firm,  hard  ground, 

And  not  where  it's  ready  to  sink  with  foul  decay ; 
But  whatever  your  loss,  whatever  your  gain, 
Hug  like  a  miser  your  spotless  name. 
Oh,  sink  not  down,  or  turn  from  the  world  with  dread, 

If  this  golden  legacy  still  remain, 
Though  stormy  and  rough  the  paths  you  tread, 

Part  not  with  your  spotless  name ; 
When  friends  and  fortune  vanish  on  swift  flying  wings, 
This  legacy'll  stand  'mong  imperishable  things. 


140  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MRS.  CHARLOTTE  A.  BARTLETT. 


Charlotte  A.  Bartlett,  wife  of  Rev.  William  Bartlett,  pastor  of 
Plymouth  Church,  and  daughter  of  Walter  P.  Flanders  of  Milwau- 
kee, died  at  Berne,  Switzerland,  Sat.,  Sept.  \zth,  of  heart  disease. 

SWEET  sister,  so  loved  and  so  dear,  thy  smile  and  kind  words  of 
cheer 

With  thy  spirit  have  vanished  away. 
So  lovely  and  pure. in  heart,  'tis  hard,  sweet  sister,  to  part; 

But  this  world  was  too  cold  for  thee  to  stay : 
Deeply  we  mourn  thee  now,  with  thy  pure  gentle  brow, 

And  know  here  we  shall  see  thee  no  more. 
Far  o'er  the  watery^deep,  sister,  thou  wentest  to  sleep, 

To  awake  on  a  starry-lit  shore. 

Across  the  storm-tossed   ocean,  with  its  ceaseless,  incessant  mo- 
tion, 

Thy  life-work,  sweet  sister,  was  ended. 
Over  the  waves  of  the  ocean  of  life,  were  lulled  from  all  strife, 

And  with  quiet  and  peacefulness  blended ; 

Toward  all  goodness  thy  heart  yearned,  and  thy  crown  immortal 
is  earned. 

Rest  in  those  fair  celestial  realms  ; 
While  deeply  we  mourn  thee  here,  and  cherish  thy  memory  dear, 

In  a  world  that  dim  care  overwhelms. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  141 


There's   a  sadness  in  the  Life  Boat  to-day,  as  thy  sweet  spirit  is 

called  away. 

And  we  drape  it  in  mourning  wreaths. 
To-day  over  thy  Eastern  home-nest,  and  over  thy  old  home  of  the 

West. 

A  spirit  of  deepest  sadness  breathes  : 
The  boat    goes  on,  nor  slacks   its  speed,  yet  many  turn  aside   to 

heed 

The  lov'd  passenger  that's  missing, 
And  tears  from  many  eyes  are  fulling,  and  that   enchanting  form 

recalling, 
Memory  that  dear  face  is  kissing, 

In  the  midst  of  antiquity  and   pleasures,   surrounded   by  earthly 
treasures, 

Thou  wert  called  to  resign  them  all ; 
But  all  know  who  knew  thee,  this  side  of  the  stormy  sea, 

Thou  wert  ready  for  that  sudden  call. 

In  social  groups   there'll  be   a  vacant   seat,  where   thou  used   to 
meet, 

And  round  them  hang  a  mournful  spell. 
Yet  thou  hast  crossed  life's  stormy  sea,  but  a  trifle  sooner  than  we 

Sister,  whom  we  sadly  whisper  farewell. 

CHICAGO,  Sept.  15,  1874. 


142  PA  TCH  WORK—  JU  VENILE  POEMS. 


AND  IS  IT  SO? 


The  following  incidental  poem  is  inscribed  to  the  young  lady  who  is 
the  heroine  of  it,  with  the  sympathy  of  the  author  who  trusts  that 
gentle  hope  may  sometime  be  rewarded. 

I  READ  it  aloud — the  love  ditty — with  its  frank  avowal  of  affection, 

Too  sentimental,  perhaps,  for  elderly  people. 
Yet  being  a  waif  from  prized  Bryant's  collection, 

Though  it  climbed  romance's  bright  steeple, 
Petty  aversion  for  once  might  undergo  a  removal, 
And  I  looked  accordingly,  to  read  her  approval. 

But  the  eloquent,  impassioned  words  that  fell  from  my  lips, 
Stirred  not  the  face  so  patient  and  calmly  serene ; 

And  just  as  the  frost  the  opening  bud  nips, 
Her  blank  look  froze  a  fair  cherished  dream  ; 

And  its  absence  left  a  void  Fate's  gems  may  not  fill ; 

A  wild  tumult,  fair  winds  cannot  still. 

Her  face  was  sweet  with  no  vestige  emotional, 

"  And  you  don't  believe  in  Love's  castle  erection  ?". 

She  answered,  "  'tis  unreal,  fanciful,  notional, 
Man  has  no  unselfish,  undying  affection ; 

There  is  but  one  love  unimpassioned  and  mild, 

'Tis  a  mother's  perpetual  love  for  her  child. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  143 


"  So-called  love  is  a  whimsical  fancy  or  tumultuous  passion, 
And  dies  like  morning  dew  on  the  grass :" 

And  experienced  echoed  such  love  is  the  fashion  ! 
Encase  the  whole  with  oblivion's  glass ! 

Yet  as  poem  and  dream  I  buried  low, 

Hope  just  dared  whisper,  and  is  it  so  ? 


LET   ME  DIE  IN  MY  YOUTH. 


OH,  let  me  die  in  my  youth,  ere  the  storm-clouds  of  life, 
Mingled  with  the  hurricanes  of  trouble  and  strife, 
And  the  rough  waves  of  this  tempestuous  cold  world, 
Have  round  my  faltering  footsteps  been  hurled, 
Ere  the  sunlight  fade  wholly  from  out  life's  sky, 
Let  me  die  in  my  youth,  in  my  youth  let  me  die ! 

Ere  those  who  love  me  have  all  passed  away, 

And  no  fond,  loving  look  near  to  me  shall  stay. 

Ere  smiles  now  so  bright  shall  be  dimmed  by  time, 

Ere  other  voices  sound  sweeter  than  mine. 

Ere  love  and  affection  fade  from  life's  sky, 

Let  me  die  in  my  youth,  in  my  youth  let  me  die  ! 

Ere  I  shall  bury  my  hopes  far  out  of  sight, 

Away  from  all  future  gleams  of  joy  or  light. 

Ere  brightest  castles  shall  fall  to  sand, 

Dark  in  the  night  of  the  past  to  stand, 

Ere  fond  dreams  fade  from  out  of  life's  sky, 

Let  me  die  in  my  youth,  in  my  youth  let  me  die  ! 


144  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Ere  low  gentle  words  shall  grow  stern  and  cold, 
Towards  one  that  is  faded,  wrinkled  and  old, 
Ere  eyes  meet  mine  no  longer  with  joy, 
But  turn  aside  as  from  a  broken  toy, 
Ere  kind  looks  and  words  shall  dim  in  life's  sky, 
Let  me  die  in  my  youth,  in  my  youth  let  me  die ! 
CHICAGO,  Sept.  i2th,  1874. 


ONE  THING   TO  TALK  AND   ANOTHER   TO   DO. 


OH,  'tis  easy  to  talk,  and  for  words  to  float  out, 
As  birds  flit  along  on  swift  flying  wings, 

Brave,  heroic  deeds  we  can  talk  all  about, 

But  to  talk,  and  to  do,  are  two  different  things. 

Promises  are  made,  and  in  firm  words  spoken, 

But  question  how  long  will  they  last  ? 
While  one  promise  is  made,  two  may  be  broken, 

For  they  are  not  with  meditation  o'ercast. 

Promises  were  well,  but  they're  easily  made, 
Bright  hopes  for  awhile  they  may  strew, 

But  when  fair  castles  fail,  and  bright  seasons  fade, 
We  see  'twere  easier  to  talk,  than  to  do. 

Then  cheer  not  the  heart  with  a  promise  that's  brittle, 

For  the  sake  of  a  sound  that  is  fine, 
Better  than  much,  is  the  sure  promised  little, 

That  comes  in  the  opportune  time. 


PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  145 


Twere  better  to  not  build  the  bright  castle  at  all, 
Than  build  on  a  promise  that  must  soon  slip  thro,' 

Than  to  see  the  phantom  structure  suddenly  fall, 
For,   'tis  one  thing  to  talk,  and  another  to  do. 


LOVE  THAT  WILL  STEM  FIRE  AND  WATER. 


HER  eyes  are  dark,  and  her  face  is  fair, 

And  a  garden  of  flowers  resteth  there, 

Full  lips  of  coral  and  hair  of  jet, 

The  rarest  beauty  eye  hath  seen  yet, 

Features  and  fortune  all  one  could  ask, 

To  like,  admire,  were  an  easy  task 

And  love,  we  may  add  till  from  adversity's  lake, 

Eruptions  of  trials  and  failures  break, 

And  then  love  seeks  a  more  favorable  quarter, 

'Tis  not  the  kind  to  stem  fire  and  water. 

Love  sits  not  down  o'er  the  eyes  or  hair, 

Nor  on  the  face  tho'  it  be  comely  and  fair. 

Love  pen-hes  not  on  the  coral  lips, 

Nor  ir.to  the  bosom  of  fortune  dips; 

The  hand  may  be  large,  or  it  may  be  small, 

Does  it  matter  to  love  ?  oh,  not  at  all : 

The  mind  may  be  strong,  or  weak  as  a  dove, 

Love  is  love  because  it  is   love; 

Adversity'll  not  turn  it  in  another  quarter —    ^  / 

Tis  ready  to  stem  both  fire  and  water. 


I46  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  DR.  A.  BEARDSLEY. 


THE  Ocean  of  Life  still  glideth  on  the  same, 

Yet  on  its  shore  of  sand, 
We  miss  a  fair  and  faithful  name, 

Shining  on  Heaven's  strand. 

One  who  hath  walked  with  us  many  years, 

His  good  example  e'er  a  guide, 
Has  left  this  world  of  care  and  tears, 

And  crossed  to  the  brighter  side. 

There's   a  vacant  place  where  his  footstep  tread, 

The  gentle  voice  we  do  not  hear, 
For  he  hath  joined  the  happy  dead, 

Where  there's  no  sigh  or  tear. 

Already  he  hath  found  the  rest, 
For  which  we  search  o'er  and  o'er, 

That  genuine  place  that  bears  a  test, 
Found  only  on  that  quiet  shore. 

While  bitter  tears  are  shed  for  him, 

Safe  within  jasper  walls, 
He's  passed  from  a  world  of  toil  and  sin, 

Away  from  temptation's  calls. 


PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS,  147 


And  lo,  a  joy  for  each  mourning  friend, 

That  beyond  the  rolling  river, 
Where  life  with  its  ups  and  downs  shall  end, 

Friends  meet  again  together. 


By  ever  that  celestial  city  viewing, 
Shunning  aught  that  may  allure. 

By  ever  the  narrow  way  pursuing, 
Make  Heaven's  passport  sure. 

There's  a  pearly  gate  and  a  golden  seat, 
Just  beyond  on  that  peaceful  shore, 

Where  parted  friends  again    may  meet, 
And  meet  to  part  no  more. 

CLINTON,  N.  Y. 


I48  PA  TCH  WORK—  JUVENILE  POEMS. 


DUTY. 

Written  at  the  time  of  the  Cuba  altercation,  and  cry  of  war  !  and 
inscribed  to  a  friend. 

THERE'S  many  a  bushy  path  that  Duty  bids  us  tread, 

And  from  them  we  would  not  turn  aside, 
Though  their  burdens  be  like  weights  of  lead, 

If  we  be  by  conscience  fully  justified. 
Through  many  channels  we  are  called  to  pass, 

And  through  some,  Duty  may  seem  to  call, 
That  when  singled  clearly  from  the  mass, 

We  find  she  toucheth  not  at  all. 

And  there  is  the  point,  perhaps,  on  which  we  fail, 

Make  ofttimes  a  fatal  and  sad  mistake, 
By  imagining  that  Duty's  sonorous  calls  assail, 

And  thus  morbid  fancies  oft  awake, 
When  Duty  points  in  an  opposite  direction, 

And  we  should  strive  to  see  her  finger, 
And  not  fancy  that  her  mandate  or  connection, 

Near  our  names  doth  linger. 

When  o'er  the  water  speeds  the  news  afar, 
Raising  fear,  excitement  and  commotion, 

The  fearful,  to-be-dreaded  cry  of  war  ! 
When  hearts  are  filled  with  quick  emotion, 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Let  those  pause  awhile  and  think, 

On  whom  solemn,  imposing  duties  rest, 

Lest  they  should  take  a  step  on  Danger's  brink, 
That  would  be  by  God  unblest 

And  those  he  hath  designed  for  other,  broader  fields, 

Should  not  sever  God's  woven  bands, 
And  take  the  swords  and  grasp  the  shields, 

Designed  for  use  by  other  hands ; 
For  there  are  those  who  cannot  bring 

Salvation  to  fallen  world  and  nation, 
While  they  would  better  make  the  ring, 

To  take  the  warrior's  station. 

Rush  not  headlong  on  for  pastime  or  for  pleasure, 

Be  cautious,  rather  than  audacious,  bold, 
For  who  the  watery  waves  would  measure, 

For  paltry  fame  or  shining  gold  ? 
Or  who  but  to  gain  a  valiant  name, 

Cross  the  stormy  waves  to  Cuba  bound  ? 
Or  merely  for  popularity  or  brilliant  fame, 

Find  a  grave  on  Spanish  ground  ? 

Thus  admonishing  would  we  speak  to  all, 

Especially  the  young  and  brave, 
But  wait,  wait  for  the  country's  unmistaken  call, 

Valor  and  effort  for  it  save  ; 
And  then,  if  Duty  at  last  demands, 

God's  message  "  go,"  floats  on   the  air, 
With  beating  heart  and  trembling  hands, 

We'll  resign  lov'd  ones  with  a  prayer. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


WHO'D  STRIVE? 


WHO'D  strive  the  joys  of  the  present  hour  to  hold, 

Which  must  not  only  perish  in  the  grasp 

Of  the  next,  but  be  succeeded  by  the  fiercest  opponents  ? 

\ 

THITHER, 


THITHER  from  uncertainty's  turbulent  waves  to  rest, 
Like  a  frightened  dove  to  its  mother's  breast. 


WILL  YOU  THINK  OF  ME? 


TO    B. 

AMONG  the  many  and  varied  forms, 

Of  all  that  you  may  see, 
Mid  life's  thick  and  gathering  storms, 

Where  e'er  you  chance  to  be, 
Mid  life's  fair  or  clouded  morns, 
11  you  ever  think  of  me  ? 


PA  TCHWORK—JU VENILE  POEMS.  151 


FORGIVE. 


FORGIVE  !  nor  number  the  times  two,  nor  yet  eleven, 
Forgive  !  forgive  even  seventy  times  seven ; 
Too  much !  Oh,  too  much,  do  I  hear  you  say, 

As  in  prayer  you  bow  the  reverent  head  ? 
Then  every  harsh  thought,  Oh,  cast  away, 
"  Seventy  times  seven  "  the  Saviour  said. 
And  mildly  he  looketh  down  from  Heaven, 

And  sayeth  forgive,  nor  malice  nor  envy  keep, 
Forgive  as  you  hope  to  be  forgiven, 

And  how  sweet  will  be  your  sleep  ! 
We  owe  a  debt  which  increases  as  long  as  we  live, 
As  we  would  be  forgiven,  so  let  us  forgive. 


HER  FATHER'S  CHOICE. 


A  BALLAD  OF  FACT. 

IN  heart  and  spirit  they  were  one,  and  loved  each  other  well, 
But  the  fickle  hand  of  Fortune  heavily  upon  them  fell. 

His  forehead  spoke  of  intellect,  broad,  and  not  too  high, 
And  expressive,  but  mild  and  loving,  was  the  keen  blue  eye 


15*  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Too  fair  the  brow  the  wealth  of  fair  hair  had  shaded, 
But  for  the  firmness  that  every  lineament  pervaded. 

In  wealth  of  mind  he  stood  far  in  advance  of  her  relation, 
Still  unfortunate,  for  he  chanced  to  be  of  humble  station. 

His  clothes  were  not  of  broadcloth  soft  and  fine, 
He  swung  the  scythe,  and  fed  her  father's  kine. 

Oft,  when  unobserved,  she  walked  the  meadow  at  his  side, 
And  bona  fide  promised,  to  one  day  be  his  bride. 

Happy  they  might  have  been,  left  to  their  own  free  choice, 
But  there  broke  in  her  father's  unrelenting  voice. 

His  irrevocable  decision  was,  their  union  could  not  be, 

He  chose  for  her  a  bridegroom  of  noble  birth  and  high  degree 

His  choice,  a  wealthy  neighbor's  only  son, 
Two  in  God's  sight,  in  wayward  man's  made  one. 

Betty  stowed  away  her  love  in  a  silent  little  nook, 
Nor  dreamed  they  of  the  woful  step  she  took. 

Conscience  said, "  those  vows  are  false,  you'll  rue  the   step  you 

take;" 
She  responded,  "  not  when  I  do  it  for  my  father's  sake. 

If  she  silently  sighed  for  the  true  love  she  had  won, 
They  only  echoed,  "  how  well  she  has  done." 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  153 


Years  have  passed  on  Time's  ever  progressive  wave, 
That  father  long  has  slept  within  his  grave. 

Gone  her  fortune  that  he  with  pride  and  boasting  left. 
Of  her  husband's  care  and  love  long  since  bereft. 

Four  children  had  blessed  their  once  princelv  home, 
When  he  left  her  penniless  and  alone. 

He  left  his  home,  his  native  land  in  shame, 
A  blackened  stigma  on  his  lofty  name. 

She,  once  beauty  and  belle,  with  many  a  wooer, 
Now  barely  keeps  starvation  from  the  door. 

She,  once  the  gayest  in  the  crowded  festal  room, 
Earns  a  meager  support  at  the  weaver's  loom. 

And  him  whom  oft  she  recalls  in  a  dream, 
Her  youthful  choice,  perchance  you  have  seen. 

A  minister  who  won  a  high  station  in  which  to  preach, 
His  eloquence,  thousands  of  hearts  did  reach. 

Old  and  young  would  gather  from  far  and  near, 
The  youthful  orator's  impressive  words  to  hear. 

But  his  life  was  wrecked,  and  made  drear  and  cold, 
Ey  one  who  sundered  two  hearts  for  gold. 


154  PA  TCH  WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


An  apology  for  love — he  called  two  by  name  of  wife, 
And  then  in  a  fit  of  insanity,  took  his  own  life. 

There  comes  a  whisper,  as  'twere  a  spirit  voice, 

"  Ruin  and  suicide,  the  result  of  her  father's  choice." 


TO  MRS.  DANIELS, 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER    INFANT  CHILD. 

ONE  summery  day,  a  rosebud  fair  was  blown, 

But  ere  its  perfume  left  a  deepened  trace, 
It  withered,  and  a  signet  cold  was  thrown 

O'er  its  seraphic  and  heaven-lit  face ; 
The  bud  of  promise,  so  beauteous  and  fair, 

Drooped,  and  ere  long,  dropped  away ; 
But  from  thorny  paths  hedged  in  with  Care, 

It  stepped  into  a  long,  perennial  day ; 
From  the  shield  of  a  warm,  maternal  breast, 

Free  from  the  harsh  world's  rust  and  canker, 
It  hath  entered  a  haven  of  eternal  rest, 

Within  the  fold  of  a  protecting  anchor. 

A  picture  with  infantile  beauty  painted — 
To  what  can  it  be  in  its  purity  allied  ? 

Free  from  thought,  by  anxiety  untainted, 
By  e'en  a  single  frown  unsullied, 


PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  1 55 


Opened  its  little  eyes,  and  closed  in  affection's  clasp, 

On  this  variable  and  changeful  scene, 
Ere  it  strove  the  world's  baubles  to  grasp, 

And  find  them  all  a  dream. 
Gone,  beauteous  messenger  of  the  skies, 

Thy  little  life  but  a  transient  bubble ; 
Yet  thou  hast  closed  thy  sinless  eyes, 

On  a  landscape  o'erhung  with  trouble. 

We  look  sometimes,  on  one  whose  life  is  run, 

Perhaps,  of  three-score  years  and  ten, 
His  life  may  have  been  a  useful  one, 

In  the  domestic  circle,  among  his  fellow  men, 
And  the  intricate  labyrinths  he  has  passed  through, 

Were  an  example  fair  to  leave ; 
But  fairer  the  bud,  unwet  by  chilling  dew, 

That  the  Saviour  without  a  question  doth  at  once  receive ! 
No  strivings  the  heavenly  crown  to  gain, 

Ah,  no !  the  precious  jewel  has  it  free, 
Instead  of  being  tested  in  the  gulf  of  grief  and  pain, 

Jesus  said,  "  Let  the  little  ones  come  unto  me." 

After  a  life  of  trial,  struggle  and  exertion  past, 

E'en  with  motives  and  endeavors  all  the  best, 
One  almost  doubts  a  right  at  last, 

To  sink  upon  the  loving  Saviour's  breast ; 
But  the  tiny  and  unspotted  form 

Of  one  so  gloriously  radiant  and  fair, 
Its  life  but  a  fair  unclouded  morn, 

Must  the  richest  blessings  share ; 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


While  the  fond  earthly  tie  is  torn  asunder, 
There  is  a  happy  thought  connected, 

Fair  bud  united  to  a  joyous  number, 
That  e'er  will  be  well  protected. 


SWEET  HOUR  OF  PRAYER. 


ANOTHER  day  with  its  petty  toils  )s  o'er, 

And  joined  to  those  that  have  gone  before, 

And  tho'  far  from  the  valley  I  love  so  well, 

Far  from  my  own  loved  favorite  dell, 

I  know  as  I  drink  the  evening  air, 

'Tis  the  hour  ot  seven — the  hour  of  prayer. 

And  o'er  the  distant  miles  that  lie  between, 
O'er  the  broad  expanses  that  intervene, 
In  that  chapel  warm  and  bright, 
My  heart  is  with  you  friends,  to-night. 
Ah,  yes,  though  far  away,  I  meet  you  there, 
To  spend  with  you  this  hour  of  prayer. 

Now  rises  the  prayer  of  humble  confession, 

A  hymn  follows  next  in  succession, 

Then  words  of  love  and  sweet  truth  are  spoken, 

A  band  connected  too  close  to  be  broken, 

Ah,  in  that  Chapel  so  cheerful,  so  fair, 

At  this  hour  of  seven,  I  meet  you  there. 


PA  TCH  WORK—  JU  VENILE  POEMS.  1 5  7 


TO  BUNKER- HILL  MONUMENT. 


OH,  ye  silent  monitor  of  granite,  towering  high. 
At  whose  basis  a  thousand  memories  lie ; 

How  names  dim  but  for  history's  pages, 
Come  thronging  in  one  vast  line, 

Names  that  glowed  in  by-gone  ages, 
O'ershadowed  by  the  wings  of  time; 

Ah,  the  names  of  those  who  responded  to  their  country's  call,, 
And  bravely  on  the  battle-field  did  fall. 

To  the  dust,  long  since  mingled  with  its  kindred  clay, 
Memory  bears  a  tribute  here  to-day  ; 

Ah,  step  lightly  on  this  sacred  soil, 
And  deem  it  a  privilege  and  a  treat, 

For  tired  with  heat,  o'ercome  with  toil, 
Here  walked  brave  Warren's  feet; 
We  climb  thy  cold  stone  steps  and  think  of  those 
Whose  hearts  and  spirits  with  heroic  valor  rose. 

Six  hundred  and  twenty-two  feet  from  earth  we  stand,. 
In  this  marble  monument  tall  and  grand  ; 

And  gratitude  surges  quick  and  fast, 
Through  every  pulsing  vein, 

Far  up  through  the  vestibule  of  the  past, 
We  see  the  Revolutionary  stain, 
Through  dim  time,  descendants  see  it  still, 
And  who  will  e'er  forget  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill.. 
CHARLESTOWN,  MASS. 


158  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


THE  TWO  BEARS. 


THERE  are  two  bears  that  near  us  we  should  allow  to  dwell, 
Nor  e'er  by  harsh  word  or  hasty  act  repel, 
Homes  and  lives  can  only  be  happy  made, 

Where  these  two  bears  are  allowed  to  stay, 
And  the  foundation  for  enjoyment  is  laid, 

Where  these  two  bears  haunt  the  way. 
Oh,  send  them  never  crossly  from  the  door, 
But  let  them  remain  one's  sight  before, 
For  they'll  ne'er  bring  grief  nor  sorrow, 

Nor  ever  a  thought  of  pending  sadness, 
They'll  point  out  many  a  bright  to-morrow, 

And  fill  it  with  joy  and  gladness, 
Those  two  bears  we  should  nourish  e'er  with  care, 
Their  names,  remember,  are  Bear  and  Forbear. 


A   YEAR. 


TIME  goes  sailing  on,  nor  slacketh  speed, 
Nor  weeks,  nor  months  doth  stop  to  heed, 
Sweeping  o'er  seasons  like  a  passing  dream, 
Changing  many  a  fair  and  beauteous  scene, 
Cheered  by  its  smile,  watered  by  its  tear, 
There  standeth  by,  the  twelfth  season  near, 
Another  year ! 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  159 


The  brooklet  its  merry  song  still  singing, 
The  bird  his  diurnal  visit  bringing, 
Trees  loaded  with  blossoms  in  the  spring, 
Precious  fruit  in  fall  they  bring. 
The  leaves  are  green,  then  brown  and  sere, 
Showing  that  autumn  draweth  near, 
Gone  a  year ! 

We  turn  one  glance  ad  own  the  flowery  dell, 
To  bid,  we  think,  a  brief  farewell, 
Press  the  lips  from  which  we  must  part, 
Whisper  with  lov'd  ones  pressed  to  our  heart, 
List'ing  to  the  voice  like  music  to  our  ear, 
Scanning  the  faces  that  are  to  us  so  dear, 
"Only  a  year!" 

Oh,  fickle,  fateful,  e'er  changeful  Time, 
That  variest  all  within  thy  line, 
Wilt  make  changes  'mid  the  scenes  we  leave, 
And  o'er  them  a  mournful  chasm  weave? 
Wilt  leave  the  eyes  now  bright  and  clear, 
A.nd  the  forms  to  us  so  loved  and  dear, 

'Til  we  return  in  a  year  ? 


160  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOW. 


OFT  morning's  brightest  sunshine  pales, 

Long  hours  before  the  night, 
And  many  a  dense  and  misty  shadow  veils 

The  brilliant  rays  of  early  light ; 
Yet  while  the  dazzling  sunbeams  met  the  eye, 

We  quaffed  the  joy  they  brought, 
And  when  we  see  how  soon  they  die, 

We  read  the  lesson  taught. 

A  lesson  for  Life  is  typified  by  Day, 

And  we  start  with  prospects  bright, 
Soon,  perhaps,  to  see  them  swept  away, 

And  vanished  from  our  sight : 
Thus  oft  we're  hailed  by  dark  Despair, 

Motioned  towards  her  waters  deep, 
Because  our  temples  bright  and  fair, 

Lie  shattered  at  our  feet. 

Bringing  fact,  instead  of  fancy,  to  our  view, 
We  see  many  a  castle  rent  asunder, 

Crushed,  and  broken  through  and  through, 
And  bright  names  were  of  that  number ; 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  161 


Of  Love,  and  Joy,  and  Hope  and  Trust, 
But  lo,  we  wake  with  a  sudden  start, 

To  find  prostrate  and  crumbled  in  the  dust, 
The  fair  idols  of  our  heart. 

How  often  the  casket  of  our  hopes  is  broken, 

And  its  precious  contents  spilled, 
Leaving  scarce  one  testimonial  token, 

Of  the  jewels  with  which  'twas  filled; 
And  if  Fate  grows  harsher  still  and  sterner, 

And  our  dearest  treasures  perish, 
We  know,  though  we  sigh  and  murmur, 

Earthly  idols  we  should  not  cherish. 

We  may  prize  our  gems  from  Fortupe's  hand, 

Love  our  friends  God-given, 
But  dwelling,  too,  on  a  safer  strand, 

With  our  brightest  tho'ts  of  Heaven. 
Many  and  tempestuous  are  the  storms  of  life, 

While  its  thorns  are  not  a  few, 
But  looking  aloft  o'er  the  field  of  strife, 

There's  One  will  lead  us  through. 

Shadows  all  through  our  life  will  come, 

We  couldn't  dispel  them  if  we  would, 
And  perhaps  'twere  better  not  to  be  done, 

For  their  presence  may  do  us  good  : 
For  were  our  lives,  lives  of  sunshine  quite, 

Without  a  shadow  here  and  there, 
Soon,  we  shouldn't  appreciate  the  brightest  light, 

But  deem  it,  as  a  matter  of  course,  our  share. 


162  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Life  is  a  blending  of  sunshine  and  showers, 

One  from  the  other  we  cannot  well  single, 
December's  snow  and  May's  gorgeous  flowers, 

In  forming  the  seasons  must  mingle ; 
Thus  when  dark  clouds  obscure  the  way, 

For  death  we  would  not  yearn, 
But  hopeful  wait  for  a  fairer  day, 

Take  sunshine  and  shadow  in  turn. 


LINES  ON  RECEIVING  A  BOUQUET  OF  HOUSE-PLANTS. 


TO    MRS. 

MY  friend,  many  long  miles  between  us  stand, 

But  Fancy,  thy  kind  face  can  see, 
Lo !  the  lovely  bouquet  that's  placed  in  my  hand, 

And  she  pictures  her  who  formed  it  for  me  ; 
And  o'er  the  miles  Imagination  all  swiftly  flies. 

To  greet  you,  my  friend,  with  a  kiss, 
Trifling  act,  you  say ;  yet  never  dies 

The  sweet  memory  connected  with  this. 
Each  little  blossom  how  dearly  I  prize, 

As  I  gaze  at  it  o'er  and  o'er. 
For  each  brings  before  my  enraptured  eyes,     » 

Her  who  held  it  before. 
I  shall  preserve  it,  Oh,  how  careful  and  choice 

And  though  faded  and  withered  it  be, 
Oft  I'll  picture  the  face  and  the  silvery  voice, 

Of  her  who  sent  it  to  me. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  163 


ANNA,  THE  WASHERWOMAN'S  DAUGHTER. 


NOON-TIME  in  Madame  L's  fashionable  boarding  school, 
And  a  bevy  of  girls  most  light  of  heart,  and  gay, 

Pour  forth  into  the  June  air,  soft  and  cool, 
And  in  varied  directions  take  their  way. 

In  friendly  groups  and  knots  they  gather, 

With  "  Oh,  you're  going  my  way  to-day ! 
Good  !  I  hope  to-morrow'll  be  jolly  weather! 

Going,  aren't  you,  Sue  and  May  ?" 

And  they  launch  on  the  current  therne — the  party, 
With  an  exhibition  of  amicable  caresses, 

And  picture  with  zeal  and  enchusiasm  hearty, 
Their  respective  ties  and  dresses. 

And  chatty  words  fall  from  the  lips  of  those 

Who,  except  theoretically,  know  naught  of  sorrow, 

And  none  of  life's  harsh  wants  or  cruel  woes, 
Have  ever  dimmed  their  bright  to-morrow. 

But  look !  behold  that  girl  so  slight  and  frail  ! 

For,  ah,  she  knows  both  want  and  care, 
Though  her  slender  form  and  face  so  pale, 

Show  her  too  young  and  fair. 


T64  PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


And  lo,  she  lingers  as  all  the  school  retreats  ! 

Sadly  she  stays  alone,  and  wherefore  ? 
Plainly,  'tis  but  to  brush  the  dusty  seats, 

And  sweep  the  school-room  floor. 

And  doing  this,  aspiring  Anna  cancels  her  tuition, 

She  rings  the  bell,  and  passes  water, 
And  discards  the  words — with  her  ambition — 

"  Anna,  the  Washerwoman's  daughter." 

Unceasing  time  sweeps  on,  nor  rests,  nor  pauses, 
And  Madame  L's  hundred  girls  or  more  , 

Have  stepped  into  life's  sentences  and  clauses. 
And  Anna,  who  swept  the  school-room  floor. 

But  they  grasp  the  literary  records,  be  life  sad  or  gay, 
And  search  in  their  homes  in  every  quarter, 

For  words  of  the  inspiring  author  of  the  day, 
"Anna,  the  Washerwoman's  daughter." 


PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  165 


THE  BRIGHT  SIDE. 


THERE'S  many  a  sunbeam  behind  a  cloud, 
And  smooth  waves  after  rough  tide, 

When  the  weather  is  bleak  and  the  winds  are  loud, 
We'll  look  on  the  brightest  side. 

The  ups  and  downs  of  this  life  are  many, 

But  the  joys  obscured  from  sight, 
By  trials  and  troubles  unknown  to  any, 

Are  continually  brought  to  light. 


CLOSE  OF  THE  YEAR  'SEVENTY-THREE. 


WRITTEN    FOR    A    READING. 

ANOTHER  year  on  winged  wings  has  fled  away, 

Its  hours  are  almost  o'er, 
When  we  behold  a  new-born  day, 

'Twill  be  in  the  year  of  'seventy-four. 
The  year  hath  its  joys  and  sorrows  brought, 

The  latter,  we'd  with  the  year  let  die, 
The  former  be  with  memory  fraught, 

E'er  in  her  golden  frame  to  lie. 


166  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


The  year  hath  bro't  its  seasons  of  cold  and  heat, 

Seed-time  sowing  and  harvest  reaping, 
Fortune  some  with  smiling  face  doth  greet, 

But  poverty  o'er  the  land  is  sweeping. 
There  hath  been  the  marriage  bells'  gay  jingle, 

And  the  wail  of  the  infant  child, 
Alike  the  funeral  knell's  sad  mingle, 

'Mid  the  chaos  of  confusion  wild. 

While  here  to-night,  a  warm,  united  band, 

My  friends,  let's  covenant  and  agree, 
To  remember  suffering  ones   thoughout  our  land, 

The  stricken  ones  of  'seventy-three ; 
And  bear  to  the  throne  of  grace  to-night, 

Tho'  remembrance  be  to  them  unspoken, 
Those  family  circles  that  once  were 'bright. 

Bat  now,  alas,  are  broken. 

Many  who  entered  with  us  on  this  same  year, 

Have  with  the  dead  been  numbered, 
Many  beloved  by  us  and  to  us  dear, 

In  death  long  since  have  slumbered ; 
Now  as  we  verge  on  the  year  that's  at  the  door, 

One  word  I  would  speak  to  all, 
Just  as  we  part,  perchance  to  meet  no  more — 

Let's  strive  to  meet  in  yon  jasper  Hall. 

My  friends,  I  trust  that  the  year  that  now  is  dawning, 
May  bring  you  blessings  good  and  true, 

That  within  its  clasp  many  a  sunny  morning, 
Be  waiting  there  for  you ; 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  167 


Yet- while  joy's  cup  you  almost  grasp, 

Know  sorrow  may  lurk  below, 
And  though  you  drink,  and  e'en  it  clasp, 

Be  ready,  too,  to  let  it  go. 

We  turn  one  tho't  down  the  vista  of  the  past, 

Another,  on  the  Future's  shore  unknown, 
And  may  God  with  his  mercy  e'er  o'ercast, 

Wherever  we  are  thrown ; 
And  guard  us  wherever  we  may  be, 

His  oil  of  light  upon  us  pour, 
This  we  ask  as  we  bid  farewell  to  'seventy-three, 

And  welcome  the  year  of  'seventy-four. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  FANNIE  CURRIE. 


WHILE  the  noisy  world  goes  on  for  aye, 

Nor  slacketh  its  commotion, 
We  turn  our  thoughts  aside  to-day, 

Filled  with  deep  emotion ; 
For  Death  our  little  glen  hath  entered, 

And  another  lain  to  slumber, 
O'er  one  his  mantle  swiftly  centered, 

Bright  jewel  of  our  number. 


168  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS 


Though  tears  fall  fast  from  many  an  eye,    . 

For  her  whom  God  had  loaned,       * 
In  mansions  fair  beyond  the  sky, 

The  loved  one  sits  enthroned. 
There's  a  vacant  place  in  that  household  left, 

That  we  know  will  long  remain, 
But,  mourning  friends,  who've  been  bereft, 

Your  loss  is  the  angels'  gain. 

•    Through  murmuring  breezes  of  the  air 

There  sadly  comes  a  sigh, 
For,  to  one  beloved  and  fair, 

We  are  called  to  bid  good-bye ; 
When  with  mingled  joys  and  sorrows  past, 

Our  struggling  lives  have  flown, 
May  \ve  in  heaven  meet  thee  at  last, 

Where  parting  is  unknown. 
CLINTON,  N,  Y, 


SUPERSTITION. 


"MAMMA  was  with  me,"  said  I,  "  in  my  dream, 
"And  clasped  me  in  her  loving  arms, 

And  no  misty  shadows  were  there  between, 
To  dim  the  sweetest  of  maternal  charms." 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS,  169 


"  Oh,"  says  a  dream  teller,  full  of  false  superstition, 
"  To  dream  of  the  living  is  sign  of  a  death," 

And  down  went  the  castles  of  my  fairest  ambition, 
As  goes  a  bubble  blown  by  a  breath 

My  dream  that  surely  did  with  happiness  inspire 

Met  with  such  a  perilous  fall, 
So  appalling,  so  dreadful,  so  dire, 

'Twere  better  I  had  not  dreamed  it  at  all. 

When  thro'  the  clouds  stole  a  bright  ray, 
False  doctrines  ye  hearers  believe  not, 

All  superstition  put  ye  away, 

There's  One  who  appointeth  our  lot. 

And  when  later  I  felt  my  mother's  warm  clasp, 
I  raised  my  eyes  to  my  Father  above, 

If  e'er  superstition  would  hold  me  in  grasp, 
May  I  look  to  Thy  mercy,  Thy  love. 


SNOW  FLAKES. 


SOFT  and  white  they  fal|  one  by  one, 
Melting  at  first  in  the  rays  of  the  sun, 
Thus  the  foundation  for  drifts  is  begun, 
By  small,  white  snow-flakes. 


170  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Mildly  they  float  through  the  cold,  frosty  air, 
Pure,  unpolluted,  lovely  and  fair, 
Falling,  the  dirt  of  the  street  to  share, 
The  pure,  white  snow-flakes. 

Down  to  kiss  the  faces  they  meet, 
Down  to  sit  at  the  harsh  world's  feet, 
To  cover  the  earth  with  their  snowy  sheet, 
The  pure,  innocent  snow-flakes. 

But  lo  !  when  they  reach  the  broad  highway, 
No  longer  pure  and  white  they  stay ; 
But  mingle  with  filth  and  mud  and  clay, 
A  pile  of  soiled  snow-flakes. 

And  surely  it  needs  watchfulness  and  care, 
To  keep  our  lives  as  pure  and  fair, 
As  the  snow-flakes  flying  through  the  air, 
The  pure,  white  snow-flakes. 


LINES  TO  WILLARD. 


WILLARD,  dearest  cousin  of  my  heart, 
The  prolonged  hours  of  my  stay 
Have  glided,  glided  swift  away, 

The  hour  draws  nigh  for  us  to  part. 


PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  171 


Cousin  of  my  affection  fond  and  true, 
Deep  emotions  fill  my  breast, 
Brightest  tokens  of  love's  test, 

As  I  pen  these  parting  lines  for  you. 

With  joy  we  meet,  with  sadness  part, 
And  hoping  joy  for  you  in  store, 
That  happiness  lay  your  life  before, 

I  try  to  soothe  my  aching  heart 

That  an  untruth  ne'er  on  thy  lip  may  lie, 

That  your  life  may  be  e'er  pure  and  fair, 
Is  my  heartfelt,  earnest  prayer, 

As  I  bid  you,  cousin  dear,  good-bye. 


STAR  OF  HOPE. 


WE  look  o'er  the  dark  clouds  that  hover  around, 

To  greet  a  ray  of  light  visible  afar, 
And  tho'  trials  and  troubles  are  dense  and  profound, 

We  would  look  for  Hope's  radiant  star. 

Dark  days  we  know  must  come  unto  all, 
But  we  ne'er  should  give  up  to  despair, 

While  we  can  look  o'er  the  fierce  waterfall, 
To  a  star  that's  so  bright  and  so  fair. 


172  PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


The  tempest  of  life  is  a  fierce,  howling  blast, 

Yet  sweet,  hidden  joys  it  may  bar, 
The  sweeping  tide  fair  gems  may  o'ercast, 

Bro't  to  light  by  Hope's  radiant  star. 

Let's  not  frown  on  what  misfortunes  have  severed, 
Not  their  fair  inherent  beauties  mar, 

By  omitting  the  value  there  is  to  be  gathered, 
By  looking  at  Hope's  wondrous  star. 


THE  WAY  IN  WHICH  HE  LEADS  US. 


OFT  thro'  by-paths  and  strange  we  find  our  footsteps  pacing, 

Where  we  see  little  of  joy  to  feed  us, 
But  though  shades  of  darkness  we  may  be  facing, 

'Tis  the  way  in  which  He  leads  us. 

And  tho'  the  paths  are  those  we  should  not  choose, 

We  know  He'll  guide  and  feed  us ; 
Then  should  we  follow  on,  nor  e'er  refuse 

The  way  in  which  He  leads  us. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  173 


AUNTIE,  GOOD-BYE. 


THE  last  month  of  the  year,  just  before  we  drop  a  tear 

O'er  his  frosty,  algid  bier, 

And  with  it  a  sigh, 
Thou  hast  entered  the  mystic  portals,  bless'd  abode  of  the 

Auntie,  good-bye.  [immortal?? 

We  shall  know  thee  here  no  more,  nor  when  weary  miles  we've 
See  thy  face  at  the  door,  [speeded  o'er,. 

When  we  draw  nigh; 

Thy  feet  no  more  will  run,  to  'note  joy  that  we  have  come ; 
Auntie,  good-bye. 

Thy  hand  will  no  more  caress,  nor  forehead  fondly  press, 

As  if  silently  to  bless 

Life's  protean  sky; 
How  easy  rent  the  vital  spark  which  leaves  this  world  so  dark ! 

Auntie,  good-bye. 

Still  in  thy  blest  abode,  bless  if  thou  may  the  hoary  load, 

Met  in  Life's  weary  road  ; 

Thy  pet  would  cry 
'Twere  no  task  to  weep  at  will,  would  it  keep  the  wrung  heart 

Auntie,  good-bye.  [still;. 


174  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Across  the  slight  division,  into  a  perennial  elysium, 
To  thee  a  sweet  transition ; 
If  thou  mayst,  from  on  High, 

Smile  on  the  friends  thou'st  left  bowed  deeply  and  bereft ; 
Auntie,  good-bye. 

CHICAGO,  December  18,  1874. 


ANGEL  OF  COMFORT. 


STORMS  may  rage  and  the  winds  may  blow, 
Sorrows  may  come  and  joys  may  go, 
The  heart  be  crushed  'neath  burdens  of  care, 
Even  Hope  be  defied  by  despair, 
'Mid  adversity's  dull  drenching  showers, 
May  be  seen  no  bright  up-springing  flowers, 
Still  there's  one  can  banish  resentment, 
And  scatter  roses  of  sweetest  contentment, 
Ope'  the  heart's  door  nor  drive  him  away, 
For  he'll  brighten  even  the  darkest  day, 
'Tis  Patience,  the  Angel  of  Comfort. 

Ah,  sorrowing  one  with  the  downcast  eye, 
Not  wishing  to  live,  but  asking  to  die, 
Naught  but  misfortunes  around  you  have  coiled, 
Your  bravest  efforts  have  only  been  foiled, 
Your  noblest  aims  have  met  with  repulsion, 
Fate  yields  not  to  prayer  or  compulsion, 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  175 


The  wide  world  passes  you  coldly, 
You  ask  its  assistance,  it  stares  at  you  boldly, 
With  all  your  pure  aims  and  motives  so  true, 
It  jostles  you  rudely,  there's  nothing  for  you. 
Behold  Patience,  the  Angel  of  Comfort ! 

You've  made  promises  impossible  to  meet, 
Friends  no  longer  see  you  when  in  the  street, 
Adversity,  Friendship's  most  pointed  test, 
Has  affected  those  who  loved  you  the  best. 
"Prosperity's  the  very  heart  of  love," 
Which  afflictions  soon  can  remove ; 
But  tho'  a  channel  where  mystery  lurks, 
God,  his  mighty  wonder  sure  works, 
Welcome,  then,  that  one  consoling  friend, 
"  Most  poor  matters  point  to  some  rich  end." 

Welcome  Patience,  the  Angel  of  Comfort! 
CHICAGO,  Jan.  i6th,  1875. 


REQUIESCAT  IN  PACE. 


Gen.  A.  C.  Harding  died  in  Monmouth,  Warren   Co.,  III.,  July 
19,  1874. 
ROUND  us  on  every  side  we  still  behold  the  rolling  world, 

Its  bustling  business  vand  confusion  on  every  side, 
But  we  pause  amid  vicissitudes  at  our  feet  now  hurled, 

To  give  a  tribute  tho't  to  him  crossed  o'er  the  mystic  tide. 


176  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


The  world  still  has  its  men  both  lood  and  great, 

Yet  the  world  should  drop  a  tear  o'er  this   one  of  its  number, ! 
But  oh,  remembrance  and  gratitude  of  this  western  state, 

Should  ne'er  in  the  future  be  known  to  slumber. 

Prominent  among  the  names  on  this  century's  page,      < 
Thr'out  the  world,  first  thi'out  the  western  land, 

The  name  honored  and  revered  of  this  belov'd  and  model  sage, 
Ah,  bright  and  beautiful  will  the  name  of  Gen.  Harding  stand  ! 

Remember  him,  ye  aged,  forget  him  not,  ye  young, 
Tho'  aside  from  earth's  routine  of  months  he  be  lain, 

Bless  him  for  that  sonorous  voice  that  oft  has  rung, 
Bless  him  for  the  iron  cars  that  scour  the  plain. 

And  let  his  precepts  e'er  on  fancy's  wing  be  strung, 
And  while  the  result  of  his  good  words  we  see, 

We  say  to  this  world's  prized  friend,  Requiescat  in  pace! 


LOVE  VERSUS  RICHES. 


IN  a  stately  mansion  that  wealth  had  decked  with  care, 
Sat  the  lovely  heiress — the  spoiled  coquette — Irene  LaClare 
In  her  mind  she  was  revolving  o'er  and  o'er, 
The  suitors  that  thronged  her  by  the  tens  and  score ; 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  177 


And  among  all  who  to  her  charms  had  bowed, 
She  loved  but  one,  yet  she  was  proud, 
And  he  was  poor,  but  of  noble  mind,  and  good, 
Still  framed  in  her  mind  her  ideal  Iwer  stood — 
Wealthy,  intellectual,  of  noble  birth  and  grand, 
And  only  he  could  aspire  to  that  fair  hand  ! 

And  while  thus  she  mused,  through  the  carved  door, 

Came  her  lover  rich,  yet  to  worldly  eyes  so  poor, 

And  after  a  lingering  silence  that  reigned  around, 

'Mid  an  embarrassment  deep,  profound, 

To  the  tho'ts  that  lay  uppermost  in  his  mind, 

His  lips  an  utterence  were  forced  to  find  : 

Down;  down  she  crushed  the  rising  love — 

His  eloquence  that  proud  heart  must  not  move, 

Should  he  win,  with  nothing  but  merit  on  which  to  stand, 

While  she'd  been  sought  by  the  highest  of  the  land? 

He  was  her  equal  by  talent  and  connection, 
While  he'd  gained  her  purest  and  best  affection, 
But  there  was  Pride  standing  ever  near  to  warn  her, 
Of  the  lack  of  wealth  and  the  deficient  corner; 
And  from  he:,  proud  and  sorrowful  he  turned  away, 
And  left  the  town  that  had  been  so  bright,  so  gay ; 
And  ere  a  year  had  passed  with  its  gentle  glide, 
He  had  won  a  young  and  lovely  bride, 
And  ere  another  flitting  year  had  fled, 
Irene  La  Clare  slept  with  the  dead. 


178  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


THE  BELLE  OF  LONG  BRANCH. 


AGAIN  I  seek  the  rustic  seat  upon  the  tented  beach, 

Where  I  sat  two  years  ago — ah,  well ! 
Ah,  Memory  why  now  o'er  past  realms  reach, 

To  recall  the  Long  Branch  Belle  ? 
Yes,  on  this  spot,  the  white  robed  flitted  by, 

And  then  the  hard  gained  introduction, — 
A  seaside  flirt,  a  heartless  coquette  you  cry, 

Who  wrought  my  life's  destruction ! 

There  you're  wrong,  revoke  the  harsh  decision, 

She  was  true  to  me  as  steel, 
And  would  have  made  my  life  elysian 

But  now  I  must  sorrow  and  anguish  feel; 
For  there  is  a  brighter  world  than  this, 

A  world  that  is  more  genial,  fair, 
A  haven  of  rest  of  long,  perennial  bliss, 

And  she  was  wanted  there. 

And  now  I  watch  the  faces  of  dazzling  beauty, 

In  haunts  aside  from  the  scorching  sun, 
And  conscience  whispers — it  is  your  duty — 

There's  none  like  that  lost  one : 
Hers  was  a  heart  too  pure,  a  nature  too  lovely  far, 

For  this  earth's  cold,  dismal   spell, 
I  fancy  her  awaiting  me — my  Life's  Star, 

The  beauteous  Long  Branch  Belle. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  179 


FALLEN  CASTLES. 


CASTLES  how  oft  they're  built  by  the  young,  the  brave,  the  fair,- 

Built  with  a  strong,  ambitious  hand, 
O'erhung  with  caution,  and  inlaid  with  care, 

How  firm  they  may  seem  to  stand  ! 
But  though  they're  built  with  many  a  spacious  hall, 
The  most  elaborate  built  may  be  the  first  to  fall. 

In  this  battle-field  of  life,  with  its   varied  ups  and  downs, 

We  see  the  wrecks  on  every  hand, 
Where  bright  castles  stood  awhile  amid  life's  frowns, 

Then  fell,  worthless,  to  the  sand : 
Phantom  structures  that  briefly  cheered  life's  pathway, 
Then  vanished  into  dim  and  dark  decay. 

How  many,  looking  into  the  chambers  of  the  past, 

See,  lying  amid  the  chaos  there, 
Though  with  the  lines  of  care  and  time  o'ercast, 

A  fallen  castle  that  once  was  fair  : 
A  castle  that  once  was  bright,  and  gilded  gay, 
That  by  some  slight  jostling  was  swept  away. 

CHICAGO,  Sept.  29,  1874. 


180  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS 


THE  CARRIER'S  CALL. 


ONE  of  the  brightest  episodes  of  city  life, 
Of  its  eventful  incidents,  great  or  small, 

For  which  we  wait  and  listen  amid  the  strife, 
Is  surel  y  the  Carrier's  call. 

Hark  !  there's  the  Carrier  on  his  morning  round, 
Yet  stay !  he  calls  but  one  name  this  time — 

Eager  ears  listen  with  interest  profound, 
And  to  each,  it  sounds  like  mine. 

The  Carrier  bringeth  glad  tidings  and  fun, 
And  some  sweet  message  to  all : — 

What  sound  is  as  universal  a  welcome  one, 
As  the  Carrier's  sonorous  call  ? 

Welcome,  yes,  welcome  up  avenue  and  street, 
And  while  we  rush  for  mail  in  a  whew, 

Let's  not  forget  with  a  smile  to  greet 

The  Public's  ambassador  faithful  and  true  J 

As  cheery  an  episode,  we  venture  to  say, 

As  may  be  in  the  storehouse  of  Memory's  hall, 

In  the  coming  hours  of  a  future  day, 
Will  be  the  Carrier's  call. 

CHICAGO,  Oct.  10,  1874. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  181 


PAPA'S  HAIR, 


"  Little  Jessie's  growing  handsome,  Mrs.  Blue, 
Complexion  like  yours,  so  clear  and  fair, 

Then  she  laughs  so  much  like  you, 
But  she's  got  her  father's  hair." 

Jessie  sat  in  the  window  with  flowers  tied, 
To  form  a  garland  and  floral  gem — 

"  Well !  if  I've  got  papa's  hair,"  she  cried, 
"  It's  why  he  wears  a  wig,  then  !', 


A  HIT  ON  YOUNG  AMERICAS. 


"I'D  like  to  go  to  China  and  Japan,  mother, 
Teach  that  benighted  race  the  light  to  see, 

How  I'd  joy  to  watch  their  progress, 
What  a  glorious  mission  it  would  be ! 

To  hear  them  read  and  see  them  write, 
Oh,  'twould  be  fun  for  me." 


182  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


"  But  Mary,  there  are  children  here, 
Children  plenty  within  your  reach, 

There's  mission  work  this  side  the  Ocean, 
Just  you  do  instead  of  preach. " 

"  Yes,  mother,  there  are  children  here, 
But  they're  to  wild  for  me  to  teach." 


THANKSGIVING  DAY. 


THE   seasons  have  formed  another  year  which  now  has  cycled 
round, 

Again  November's  blasts  sweep  fiercely  o'er  the  way, 
And  amid  the  merry  sleigh  bells'  sound, 

We  welcome  another  Thanksgiving  Day, — 
We  drink  its  joys,  nor  count  its  sorrows  o'er, 
And  memorize  Thanksgiving  Day  of  Eighteen  seventy-four* 


This  day  to  some,  in  Memory's  hall  will  brighter  stand, 

Will  intimation  do  or  must  we  say, 
That  for  those  who  resign  their  heart  and  hand, 

On  this  Thanksgiving  Day, 
For  those,  Memory  in  her  hallowed  store, 
Will  record  Thanksgiving   Day,  Eighteen  seventy-four. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  183 


Young  and  old,  come  forth  and  proudly  stand, 

To  shout  a  welcome  and  joyful  lay> 
Yet  dark  clouds  have  o'erswept  our  land, 

Since  last  Thanksgiving  Day — 

Clouds  of  death,  and  fire,  and  scandal  have  touched  life's  sea, 
Since  Thanksgiving  Day  Eighteen  seventy-three. 

Aside  from  the  thousands  of  lives  on  life's  vast  battle-field, 
Reviewing  personal  changes  that  have  dimmed  life's  sky  to  grey, 

Fortune  hath  not  been  slow  his  fickle  wand  to  wield, 
Since  last  Thanksgiving  Day  ! 

Still  may  our  land  with  many  a  blessing  thrive, 

For  all  who  see  Thanksgiving  Day  of  Eighteen  seventy-five ! 
CHICAGO,  Nov.  26,  1874. 


TWO   RINGS  OF  A  LIFETIME. 


"  BUT,  Grandma,  didn't   you  wear  rings  when  you  were  young?" 

Raising  her  tiny  hand — five  rings  in  a  line — 
A  hand  that  was  shapely  and  too  small  by  far, 

To  be  decked  with  jewels  so  costly  and  fine. 

"  Wear  rings,  my  child  ?   yes,  but  the  only  ones  ever  I  wore—- 
Though perhaps  'twas  only  a  fancy  of  mine, 

I  know  that  you'll  think  I  should  have  worn  more — 
But  I  never  wore  but  two  rings  in  my  life-time. 


184  PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS, 


"  They're  in  that  little  box  in  the  drawer — no,   child,  it's  blue,- 

Yes,  here  they  are,  you  see  they  are  not  fine, 
But  still,  if  you  wish,  I'll  give  their  history  to  you, 

Only  think  of  two  rings  in  a  long  life-time 

"  My  father  was  rich — I  might  have  had  rings  a  score, 
But  over  that  subject  how  fancy  would  linger, 

And  child,  the  first  ring  that  ever  I  wore, 
Your  Grandfather  Thomas  put  on  my  finger. 

"  And — ah,  yes,  he  was  poor,  and  the  ring  was  a  plain  one, 

And  father — I'm  only  too  sorry  to  tell — 
Would  have  had  me  secure  him  a  wealthier  son, 

And  a  ring  more  brilliant  as  well. 

"  My  father's  irate  countenance  I  fancy  I'm  seeing, 

And  yet  'tis  fondly  memory  doth  linger, 
For  amid  all  his  frowns  I  was  the  happiest  being, 

The  day  this  ring  was  placed  on  my  finger. 

"  Father  got  quiet — called  it  a  girlish  fancy,  a  bubble, 

I  was  a  trifle  over  nineteen,  you  see, 
Then  it  was  thought  to  foreshadow  a  life  of  trouble, 

To  promise  your  hand  ere  seeing  twenty. 

"  Not  much  like  that  Saratoga  Miss  falling  in  love  at  ten ! 

Then  households  were  free  from  riotous  clatter, 
But  now  children  fall  into  love  (?)  and  fall  out  again, 

And  make  no  bones  over  the  matter; 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  185 


"  And  if  they'd  fall  out  before  rushing  into  matrimony's  arms, — > 

But  then  Divorce  Courts  would  go  down, 
And  without  these  hovering  and  perilous  alarms, 

There'd  be  dullness  in  city  and  town. 

"  For  years  our  paths  were  wide  apart — but  he,  I  will  not  linger, 

Six  years  !    and  his  ring  alone  was  mine, 
And  then  one  day  he  placed  another  on  my  finger, 

And  these  are  the  two  rings  of  a  life  time." 


KNITTING  SCARLET  WORSTED. 


KNITTING,  knitting,  knitting  there  in  the  cabin  door, 

On  sped  the  weary  fingers,  for  she  was  poor, 

The  scarlet  zephyr  flew  in,  and  swiftly  flew  out, 

As  she  weighed  and  counted,  with  many  a  doubt, 

The  flour  and  meat  the  work  would  buy, 

And  then  over  the  worsted  there  fell  a  sigh, — 

Nor  little  dreamed,  as  she  fastened  each  scarlet  thread, 

She  fastened  a  heart  in  the  folds  of  the  web. 

And  the  knitting  went  wearily  on  from  chime  to  chime, 
Tired  fingers  found  no  sweet  resting  time, 
Nor  yet  did  the  evening  her  cares  at  all  diminish, 
'Twas  work,  work,  work,  with  never  a  finish ; 


186  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


But  the  last  rays  of  the  day's  setting  sun, 

Fell  over  the  tidy,  charmingly  done, — 

Nor  dreamed,  as  she  laid  it  aside  that  August  day, 

In  its  meshes  she  folded  a  heart  away. 

And  many  was  the  gem  of  scarlet  she  netted  beside, 
That  took  the  lead,  and  all  others  defied, 
And  so  she  worked  still,  from  morning  till  night. 
Did  she  wish  for  a  path  more  dewy  and  bright  ? 
No  murmuring  complaints  her  life  e'er  attended, 
For  precious  lives  on  her  efforts  depended,-^ 
Nor  dreamed  that  the  web  she  had  woven  and  sold, 
Still  held  a  heart  in  its  scarlet  fold. 

And  years  went  on,  and  she  was  a  lady  fair, 
Lightly  touched  by  the  lines  of  care, 
While  to  science  and  art  she  was  not  blind, 
For  she  had  stored  with  care  her  fertile  mind  ; 
And  then,  at  last,  there  came  a  day, 
She  never  had  dreamed  could  be  so  gay, 
When  she  joined  her  heart  with  all  love's  store, 
To  the  one   she  had  knit  long  years  before. 


WORKING  AND  WAITING. 

OH,  the  thousands  of  feet  that  are  dragging  along, 

And  the  hands  that  are  toiling  away, 
In  cities  and  towns  where  hundreds  of  laborers  throng, 

Working  and  waiting  to-day. 


PA  TCH  WORK—JU  VENILE  POEMS.  187 


Working  and  waiting,  and  thus  years  go  by, 
And  time  his  iron  teeth  keeps  grating, 

And  many  see  hope's  sun  set  in  life's  sky, 
But  still  keep  working  and  waiting ! 

And  when  the  last  ray  of  light  goes  out,  forever 
Sinks  behind  a  brave,  towering  hill, 

Be  also  those  patient  hands  unfaltering  never, 
But  working  and  waiting  still. 


A  WOMAN'S  HAND ! 


NEITHER  size,  shape,  nor  color,  come  in  demand, 

To  form  the  beauty  of  a  woman's  hand. 

To  prize  but  a  faultless  shape  and  snowy  shade, 

Were  to  admire  beauty  that  soon  may  fade ; 

While  the  darkest  hand  and  the  homeliest  one, 

May  have  many  a  deed  of  kindness  done ; 

The  plainest  one  we  say  may  have  gained  lines  of  beauty, 

By  unflinchingly  performing  deeds  of  duty ; 

That  plain  brown  hand  just  you  raise  it  up, 

And  say  it  shall  dash  aside  the  wine  cup, 

And  lo,  its  beauty  ineffable  and  untold, 

Far  surpasses  brilliant  gems  of  shining  gold; 

But  let  the  fairest  hand  offer  the  wine  cup  to  a  human  being, 

And  there's  no  beauty  in  it  worth  the  seeing. 


188  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


But  you,  with  a  hand  that's  comely  and  fair, 

Know  good  or  evil  is  clinging  there ; 

And  surely  the  responsibility  is  greater  still, 

Of  that  hand  whose  beckoning  is  law  and  will. 

Oh,  the  power,  thrilling,  magnetic,  effectual  and  grand, 

Concealed  in  the  effort:  of  a  woman's  hand, 

Providing  that  hand,  be  it  carefully  understood, 

Be  one  that  carries  a  sublime  shield  of  good  ! 

Nor  think  too  good  that  fair  and  shapely  hand, 

To  wipe  human  blood  from  ruin's  sand, 

To  extend  to  that  perilous  and  disgusting  track, 

And  drag  poor,  demented  beings  back ! 

•Guardian  angels,  as  it  were,  may  stand, 

Enveloped  in  one  pure  and  stainless  hand ; 

But  while  those  far  down  the  hill  we  would  fain  secure, 

One  ounce  of  prevention  will  offset  two  of  cure; 

Then  let's  work  at  the  bottom  of  the  drunkard's  gutter, 

Full  of  sin  and  vice  too  wofully  sad  to  utter, 

While  we  may  perhaps  with  just  cause  doubt, 

If  woman's  hand  could  pull  them  out, 

Her  hand  may  turn  aside  the  cup  of  sin, 

And  keep  them,  better  still,  from  falling  in. 

There's  a  call  for  the  virtuous  women  throughout  our  land, 

Let  every  woman  raise  a  hand ! 


PA  TCHWORK—JU  VENILE  POEMS.  i  F.-/ 


MY  HEART  IS  BREAKING. 


SONG. 

MY  heart  is  breaking,  ah,  yes,  it  is  breaking, 
Breaking  with  its  burden  of  sorrow  ! 

I  fall  asleep  and  dread  morning's  waking, 
For  sadder  seems  each  to-morrow  : 

My  heart  is  breaking,  Oh,  yes,  it  is  breaking,. 
Nor  is  it  delusion  I  borrow  ! 

My  heart  is  breaking,  ah,  yes,  it  is  breaking, 
Why  break  poor  heart  so  young  ? 

When  the  dimness  of  age  is  o'ertaking, 
And  the  heart  with  care  hath  been  wrung, 

'Twere  easier  then  to  feel  joy  forsaking, 
When  the  Song  of  Life  had  been  sung. 

My  heart  is  breaking,  ah,  yes,  it  is  breaking, 
And  why  in  the  morning  of  life  ? 

To  be  perhaps  long  on  Life's  voyage  awaking,, 
Amid  its  wild  tumults  and  strife, 

No  ray  of  light  to  be  music  making, 
Where  dark  frowns  must  ever  be  rife ! 


igo  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


My  heart  is  breaking,  ah,  yes,  it  is  breaking, 

'Neath  a  weight  of  premature  care, 
And  sadness  is  swiftly  o'ertaking, 

A  life  that  was  once  so  fair — 
But  hark,  a  message  of  gladness,  there's  no  mistaking, 

Breaks  on  the  still  evening  air. 


AT  NIGHT. 


TIME,  when  the  world  with  its  weary  cares  and  insidious  snares, 

With  its  smiles  and  frowns,  and  ups  and  downs, 

With  its  harsh  words  cold,  and  stares  so  bold, 

With  its  many  a  mansion,  and  lovers  of  fashion, 

With  its  hovels  and  huts,  and  scornful  cuts, 

With  its  few  generous  hands,  to  reach  where  Worth  stands, 

With  its  tired  brains,  its  losses  and  gains, 

With  its  aching  hearts,  its  cruel  darts, 

With  its  steam  of  prosperity,  its  wheels  of  adversity, 

Time,  when  the  weary  world,  by  Fate's  finger  twirled, 

Bars  its  factory  door  for  the  rich  and  the  poor, 

From  the  Squire  to  the  Clerk,  all  rest  from  their  work, 

And  the  world  is  shut  in  by  a  door  whose  hinges  are  light, 

And  the  name  of  this  door  is  the  beautiful  Night. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS,  191 


THE  CASTLE  OF  CARDS. 


TRANSLATED  AND  TRANSFORMED  FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

IN  a  quiet  spot  away  from  vexation  and  noise, 

Lived  a  man,  his  good  wife  and  two  pretty  boys ; 

In  the  spot,  where,  with  peace  around  their  door, 

Their  parents  and  ancestral  friends  had  lived  before. 

Here  with  the  sweet  breath  domestic  can  throw, 

They  watched  their  sons  in  knowledge  grow : 

The  eldest  was  studious  and  full  of  thought, 

The  youngest,  cared  for  sports,  his  books  were  naught ; 

One  evening,  all  around  the  fireside  seated, 

The  eldest  read  Rollin,  that  of  ancient  Romans  treated, 

Suddenly,  with  a  burst  from  enthusiasm's  well, 

"  The  difference  between  founders  and  conquerors,  please  father 

tell." 

The  youngest,  who  cared  not  for  history's  bards, 
Was  vigorously  building  a  castle  of  cards, — 
Behold  at  this  moment  the  frail  castle  stand, 
When  lo,  it  falls  by  a  knock  from  his  brother's  hand. 
The  father,  contemplating  for  an  answer  a  sage  one, 
Replied,  ''  your  brother's  the  founder,  you  are  the  conquerer,  my 

son." 


I92  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS, 


SOMEWHERE,  SOMETIME. 


INTO  this  bustling  world  of  storm, 
That  child,  perhaps,  is  not  yet  born, 

Who  shall  see  intemperance  banished ; 
Yet  we  would  ne'er  the  cause  resign, 

But  still  strive  to  have  it  vanished, 
It  will  be  conquered  somewhere,  sometime  ! 

We  may  wearily  plant  trees  for  falling  brothers, 
Nor  see  them  eat  the  fruit — but  may  not  others? 

Then  let  us  sow  seed,  though  others  may  reap, 
Willing  bands  scatter  good  seeds  in  a  line, 

For  though  we  may  have  fallen  asleep, 
'Twill  bear  fruit  somewhere,  sometime  ! 

Intemperence  !  its  insidious  danger  strive  to  tell  \ 
'Tis  told  by  saying :  Just  imagine  hell ! 

Toward  quelling  this  evil,  sisters,  friends, 
Let  every  effort  and  power  incline, 

For  every  firm  step  taken  surely  tends, 
To  quench  it  somewhere,  sometime  / 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  193 


IN  THE  ARBOR  AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  GARDEN. 


DAYS  have  made  months,  and  months  have  rolled  into  "years, 

And  twenty  or  more  have  glided  away, 
Since  I  left   my  childhood's  home,  with  its  smiles  and  its  tears, 

Left  it  for  the  city  so  dazzling  and  gay. 
Now  I  am  back  again — I'll  to  some  favorite  nook — 

But  ah,  time  the  affections  may  not  harden — 
Then  first  I  seek,  not  the  barn,  the  well  or  the  brook, 

But  the  arbor  at  the  foot  of  the  garden ! 

Why  this  spot  of  all  others  do  I  thus  quickly  single? 

Ah,  'tis  a  sad  little  story,  but  true, 
And  though  gray  hairs  with  black  ones  now  mingle, 

I'll  venture  to  lift  the  curtain  for  you  : 
Why  do  I  seek  this  sequestered,  moss-grown  tent? 

Life's  happiest  hour — that  time  may  not  harden — 
Memory  unwavering  assures  me  was  spent, 

In  the  arbor  at  the  foot  of  the  garden ! 

I  was  a  country  girl,  ignorant  of  alight  but  labor, 

But  I  had  ambition  which  I  was  bound  to  cherish, 
Tom  Hoffman  was  my  lover,  playmate  and  neighbor, 

And  ours  was  love  that  could  not  perish. 
Twenty  years  have  come  and  as  many  have  fled, 

Since  that  scene,  time  may  not  harden, 
I  told  him  the  project  I  had  in  my  head, 

In  the  arbor  at  the  foot  of  the  garden. 


I94  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


I  see  his  face  now  through  a  channel  of  twenty  years, 

Ah,  'tis  firmly  stamped  on  memory's  page, 
And  I  see  it  through  a  misty  sea  of  tears ; 

I  am  called  an  "Eminent  Woman  of  the  Age," 
But  I'd  resign  to-day  all  the  fame  I  have  gained, 

For  time,  the  affection  cannot  wholly  harden, 
Though  it  be  blotted,  and  blurred  and  stained — 

To  see  him  in  the  arbor  at  the  foot  of  the  garden  ! 

Time  has  swallowed  years  since  that  golden  hour, 

And  youth  and  ambition  no  longer  are  rife, 
The  girl  who  sat  in  the  vine-wreathed  bower, 

Is  a.  woman  now  in  the  noon  of  life ; 
Some  events  are  past,  to  be  recalled  no  more, 

But  there's  one,  time  may  not  harden, 
'Tis  that  parting  scene  at  the  hour  of  four, 

In  the  arbor  at  the  foot  of  the  garden ! 


OVER  THE  HILLS  IN  BERRY  TIME. 


MEMORY  flies  back  a  score  of  years, 
And  there  are  fences  we  used  to  climb, 

As  merrily,  gayly,  blithly,  we  pranced, 
Over  the  Hills  in  berry  time ! 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  195 


Ah,  what  spruce  old  times  we  used  to  have, 

Jamie  and  Bell,  and  cousin  Lime, 
Some  of  life's  bright  hours  were  spent, 

Over  the  hills  in  berry  time. 

Then  there  came  a  day  in  riper  years, 
When  I  gave  my  heart  to  cousin  Lime, 

But  surely  we  first  learned  to  love, 
Over  the  hills  in  berry  time  ! 

And  Bell  has  wedded  a  gay  Attorney, 

Adapted  to  the  wreaths  of  romance  she'd  twine, 
With  a  pail  of  fruit  and  a  book  of  rhymes, 

Over  the  hills  in  berry  time  ! 

And  Jamie,  ah,  there's  a  tear  as  I  write, 
For  those  fairy  feet  that  used  to  climb — 

Ah,  absent  one  of  our  number  ! 
Over   the  hills  in  berry  time  ! 


MILKING  THE  COWS. 


No,  you'd  hardly  think  by  my  hands,  friends, 

My  hands  so  soft  and  white, 
That  I  once  drove  cows  from  pasture, 

And  milked  a  score  at  night. 


1 96  PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS 


Then  when  I  went  to  bed,  I  slept. 
Nor  woke  till  daylight's  dawning, 

And  Fredie  called  the  cows  up, 
And  I  had  but  twelve  for  morning. 

Then  I  was  hungry,  and  how  good  it  seemed, 
To  hear  the  breakfast  bell  ring  loud, 

And  I  walked  in  with  Fredie, 
Feeling  womanly  and  proud. 

Then  life  was  sweet,  ah,  sweet  indeed, 

You  wonder  now,  it  is  not  fair  ? 
I  was  not  born,  too  late,  I  know, 

For  the  wife  of  a  millionaire. 

Beside  that  milk-pail,  stool  and  vis-a-vis, 
These  estates  are  but  a  broken  toy, 

I'd  give  them  all  for  Fredie, 
Who  was  once  my  father's  chore  boy ! 


THE  HAND  WITHOUT  THE  HEART. 


OF  all  the  "  might  have  beens"  so  sad  to  read  on  memory's  page, 

One  seemeth  sadder  far  than  all  the  rest, 
For  it  banishes  faith  and  hope  from  out  the  heart, 

There,  ne'er  more  to  make  their  nest. 


PA  TCH  WORK—JU  VENILE  POEMS.  1 97 


Listen,  ye  youth,  throughout  our  proud  progressive  land  ! 

We  beg  your  close  and  kind  attention, 
For  it  is  expressly  for  your  joy  and  welfare, 

We  of  this  sad  note  make  mention 

The  saddest  "  might  have  been  "  we  so  calmly  read, 

That  forms  of  life  a  part, 
Is  to  pledge  the  hand,  betore  the  altar, 

Reserving  still,  the  faithful  heart. 

I've  lived  a  life  of  two  score  years  and  ten, 

And  I,  one  cloudy,  far  off  day, 
Blighted  my  life  by  hugging  my  heart, 

And  giving  my  hand  away. 

There  are  marriages  for  wealth  and  station, 

And  I  was  poor  and  proud, 
So  I  kept  my  heart  and  gave  my  hand, 

While  conscience  clamored  loud. 

But  there  came  a  time,  I  gave  my  heart, 

My  hand  was  bound,  but  heart  was  free, 
And  thus  the  two  were  severed, 

Dear  reader,  pity  me  ! 

And  so  the  years  have  slipped  away, 

And  the  hand  has  been  true  and  fulfilled  its  part, 
But  ah !  the  saddest  "  might  have  been," 

Is  the  hand  without  the  heart. 


}  g&  PA  TCH  WORK—JU  VENILE  POEMS. 


Now  youthful  fair,  throughout  our  land, 

In  that  crisis  step  that  must  joy  or  grief  impart, 

Beware !  nor  e'er  bestow  the  hand, 
Till  likewise  you  give  the  heart. 

DEAD   ON  A  BED  OF  ROSES. 


The  Continental  Herald  says  :  The  corpse  of  a  young  lady  was  re- 
cently found  in  the  Valley  of  Rosegg,  extended  on  a  bed  of  Alpine 
roses,  Oct.  IT,  1874. 

ONE  of  the  mysteries  that  so  oft  occur, 

Where  the  edelweiss  flower  its  face  discloses, 

In  the  morning  of  youth  they  found  her, 
Dead,  on  a  bed  of  roses ! 

Ah,  Reality's  beautiful  picture,  we  cry ! 

Though  somewhat  sad  be  the  scene, 
Gone,  with  youth's  flushed  cheek  and  star-lit  eye, 

And  beauty's  brilliant  gleam. 

No  troubles  will  that  pure  heart  encumber, 

Behold,  how  tranquilly  she  reposes  ! 
Ah,  fair  jewel  thus  gone  to  slumber, 

On  a  bed  of  Alpine  roses  ! 

In  the  morning  of  youth  they  found  her, 
But  know  not  her  home  nor  her  name, 
But  a  breath  of  purity  lurks  round  her, 
.    And  shows  her  free  from  all  blame. 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  199 


Perhaps  she  died  with  a  young  love-dream, 

Yet  fate  oft  sadness  discloses, 
So  sleep,  fair  one,  sleep  calm  and  serene, 

On  a  bed  of  Alpine  roses ! 


FANNY  FERN. 


BRAVE,  struggling  woman,  noble  work  of  God's  creation, 
Reviewing  the  rough  ground  on  which  thou  stood, 

The  trials  of  thy  o^ce  lowly  humble  station, 
We  say  "  She  hath  done  what  she  could ;  " 

While  we  face  the  world's  oppressions  fierce  and  stern, 

Bright  on  memory's  page  be  the  name  of  Fanny  Fern ! 

The  howling  tempests  braved  for  thy  children's  sake 
Amid  the  dashing  waves  of  want  and  strife, 

\nd  how  vividly  those  sweet  memories  awake, 
As  we  view  the  pages  of  thy  heroic  life  ; 

Prized  lessons  of  womanly  courage  there  we  learn, 

And  treasure  the  efforts  of  the  famed  Fanny  Fern. 

Literary  aspirants  striving  for  pen-earned  bread, 
Dwell  o'er  the  many  a  by-meandering  lane, 

Thro'  which,  to  reach  the  goal,  thy  weary  feet  did  tread, 
And  view  with  love,  thy  crispy  name  ; 

And  while  back  and  forth  fortune's  wheel  may  turn, 

Strive  to  win  a  name  as  fair  as  Fanny  Fern. 


200  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Still  that  nom  deplume  is  not  from  justice's  store, 

For,  to  the  casual,  unsearching  eye, 
Aside  from  thought's  broad,  expansive  door, 

Its  signification  would  seem  dry ; 

But  penetrating  into  the  depths  of  thy  mind's  deep  urn, 
We  cherish  the  modest  signature  of  Fanny  Fern. 

Memory  enshrines  thee  and  hearts  grow  warmer, 

Warm,  lost,  familiar  star,  towards  thee, 
For  we  miss  that  sparkling  littb  corner 

Of  life's  vast,  literary  sea ; 

But  to  the  valued  words  we  e'er  shall  fondly  turn, 
Nor  e'er  forget  the  name  of  patient  Fanny  Fern. 


A  MEMORY  OF  NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 


INSCRIBED    TO    M.  L. 

'Tis  New  Year's  Eve,  and  with  tear- filled  eye, 
I  recall  another  from  the  long  gone  by, 

A  New  Year's  Eve  that  thirty  years  have  slid  o'er, 

And  blurred  by  the  rough  waves  of  care, 
But  now  in  the  waning  hours  of  'seventy-four, 

Memory  views  through  time's  lurid  air ; 
And  is  it  weakness  to  plunge  into  realms  of  the  Past, 
To  muse  o'er  my  first  joyful  hour  and  the  last  ? 


PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  PQEMS.  201 


Remorseless  Time  with  his  protean  glass, 
Has  known  many  a  scene  like  that,  alas  ! 

Astrals  were  burning,  the  gilded  corridors  between, 

Wine  was  sparkling  and  music  was  loud, 
'Twas  then  that  I  heard  my  fond  love  dream, 

In  the  brilliant  conservatory,  away  from  the  crowd, 
His  fervency  tinged  with  the  warmth  of  the  sunny  southern  clime, 
Yet  his  ardent  love  could  not  excel  mine. 

On  such  hair-like  threads  our  destinies  hinge, 
That  most  trivial  acts  should  make  us  cringe, 
For  that  same  year  had  not  neared  its  close, 

Ere  in  the  height  of  mirth,  with  healthful  breath, 
He  sipped  the  poison,  nor  as  the  golden  chalice  rose 

Dreamed  he  drained  the  drugs  of  death, 

One  pulseless  heart,  one  breathing,  they  closed  within  the  grave, 
And  over  them  the  orange  and  magnolia  wave. 
CHICAGO,  Dec.  31,  1874. 


GIVE  YOUR  OLD  CLOTHES  AWAY. 


You  wonder  at  that,  and  think  it  is  wrong, 
Wait,  and  I'll  explain  what  I  say, 

On  what  conditions  it  seems  to  be  right, 
To  give  your  old  clothes  away. 


202  PA  TCH  WORK—JU  VENILE  POEMS. 


You,  wealthy  and  blessed  with  abundant  stores, 

Come  in  contact  with  those  every  day, 
On  whom  you  could  confer  untold  good, 

By  giving  your  old  clothes  away. 

Then  if  you  don't  frequent  the  dry  good's  shops, 

Who'll  purchase  their  contents  so  gay  ? 
Surely  not  the  poor  class  of  people, 

To  whom  you  should  give  old  clothes  away. 

By  giving  merchants  your  custom,  clothes  to  the  needy, 
Buying  a  fresh  suit  for  yourself,  displeasing  to  none, 

Behold  how  much  at  one  time  you'd  do, 
Kill  three  birds  with  only  one  stone. 

It  teaches  your  daughters  economy,  you  say, 
But  it's  a  tendency  toward  miserly  doing, 

From  which  bad  habits  might  eventually  rise, 
Nor  hardly  the  path  for  young  feet's  pursuing. 

A  story  goes  of  one  woman  who  economized, 
And  planned  sedulously,  work  upon  her  lap, 

And  when  the  day  drew  to  a  close, 

She'd  made  from  out  a  sheet,  a  whole  night-cap. 

Yet  economy,  how  highly  we  prize  it, 

Economy  of  a  kind  that  will  pay, 
But  true  economy  on  the  whole,  'twould  seem, 

Would  it  not  ?  to  give  old  clothes  away ! 


PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  203 


TO  MY  MOTHER  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY. 


FROM    "  FORGET-ME-NOT." 

MAY'ST  thou  to-day,  dull  care  put  away, 
And  may  happiness  near  thee  hover, 

May  a  bright  ray  near  thee  stay, 
On  this,  thy  birthday,  dear  Mother. 

And  as  o'er  vanished  years,  thro'  a  mist  of  tears, 

Memory  flies  quick  and  fast, 
Oh,  dry  thy  tears,  and  all  doubts  and  fears, 

Far  from  thee  cast 

bo  not  sigh  for  the  years  gone  by, 

But  rather  thank  our  Heavenly  Father, 

Who  from  on  high,  with  loving  eye, 

Has  spared  and  watched  over  thee,  dear  mother. 

Now  may  He  hear  my  prayer,  and  kindly  spare 
Thee  to  see  many  a  birthday  more, — 

When  through  with  care,  and  this  false  world  fair, 
Receive  thee  on  that  beautiful  shore. 


204  PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS, 


WHAT  SHALL  WE  LEAVE  ON  MEMORY'S  PAGE? 


As  we  look  back  over  the  year  that's  almost  past, 
Year  with  clouds  and  sunshine  overcast, 

And  record  another  year  on  Time's  revolving  stage, 
The  thought  arises  as  we  ponder  o'er 
The  varied  events  memorizing  'Seventy-four, 

What  record  would  we  leave  on  Memory's  wide  page  ? 

Round  us  hope  and  ambition  still  survive. 

And  move  toward  the  door  of  'Seventy-five, 
Not  feeble  and  relaxing,  but  animated  and  undaunted, 

And  it  were  well,  for  without  an  aim  in  view, 

Life  would  become  dull  and  blue, 
And  this  grovelling  world  be  soon  dis'chanted. 

Something  to  win  on  Memory's  sheet  a  claim, 
That  the  world  may  not  forget  our  name  ; 

But  then,  life's  dewy  promises  are  so  transparent,  thin, 
That  as  we  review  aspirations  of  'Seventy-four, 
For  past  regrets  we'd  have  amends    in  store  1 

And  nobly  strive  for  the  guerdon  we  would  win. 

Then  not  mere  wealth,  or  pomp,  or  fame, 
Should  be  the  nucleus  of  our  aim, 
But  that  some  humble  lip  can  have  to  say, 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


When  our  spirits  have  soared  aloft, 
"  Her  kind  words  have  cheered  me  oft," 
Ah,  brightest  memory,  to  live,  and  live  for  aye. 

CHICAGO,  Dec.  20,  1874. 


JOHNNIE  THE  BOOTBLACK. 


JOHNNIE  was  an  orphan,  but  he  was  honest  and  neat, 

And  he  had  a  head  and  a  mind, 
Though  he  blacked  boots  at  the  side  of  the  street, 

Blacked  them,  and  how  they  shined ! 

And  days  went  by  and  six  years  passed, 
And  Johnnie  was  clerk  in  a  druggist's  store, 

He  labeled  the  drugs  and  dealt  them  out, 
And  blacked  wayside  boots  no  more ! 

And  so  faithful  Johnnie  labored  and  toiled, 

And  another  ten  years  glided  away, 
And  journals  praised,  and  tongues  praised  more, 

The  skillful  efforts  of  Dr.  John  Day. 

And  eight  years  more  went  into  the  past, 
And  Johnnie  was  traveling  over  the  water, 

When  he  met — and  ever  blessed  the  day — 
The  Baron's  beautiful  daughter! 


206  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


No  happier  couple  e'er  stood  at  St.  Peter's  altar — 
Skeptic  who  laughs  at  the  Bootblack  and  hoots, 

Johnnie  who  won  the  Baron's  beautiful  daughter, 
Once  blacked  the  wayside  boots  ! 


THE  LAST  SABBATH  OF  THE  YEAR. 


ALL  the  months  have  sauntered  by, 

Bleak  December's  touch  is  here, 

And  its  close  now  draweth  nigh  ; 
There  is  an  awe  inspiring  something  near, 
'Tis  the  last  Sabbath  of  the  year. 

Let's  turn  our  thoughts  from  the  world  away 
Another  year  is  numbered  with  the  past, 
On  winged  wings    't  has  fled  away, 

Our  words,  our  acts  it  hath  borne  all  too  fast, 

To  the  record  that  will  always  lasi. 

Its  Sabbaths  so  precious,  all  are  o'er — 

All !  ah,  there's  one  which  seemeth  doubly  dear, 

One  remaining  Sabbath  more.  , 

But  soon  e'en  that  will  be  no  longer  here, 

For  'tis  the  last  Sabbath  of  the  year. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  207 


The  snow  is  falling,  falling  without, 
Within,  perehanee,  there  is  much  to  cheer, 
But  should  there  be  one  lurking  doubt, 

Let's  go  to  him  that  calmeth  every  fear, 

On  this  last  Sabbath  of  the  year. 

Shall  not  coldness  henceforth  cease  ? 

With  God,  and  man  whom  He  hath  placed  here, 

Let's  determine  to  be  at  peace, 
Let's  free  ourselves  from  every  doubt  and  fear, 
On  this  last  Sabbath  of  the  year. 


THE  BLIGHTED  NAME. 


REAL. 
i 

She  was  a  beautiful  girl  with  blonde-brown  hair, 

Hazel  eyes  and  face  so  purely  fair : 
Her  friends  were  counted  by  the  score, 

For  kind  fortune  halted  at  her  door ; 
But  Misfortne's  billows  around  her  furled, — 

She  was  alone  and  destitute  in  the  world ! 
And  one  by  one  her  friends  were  not, 

Nor  aught  but  depression  was  her  lot ; 
Then  woe  to  the  day  she  met  Claude  Gaughlin, 

A  sheep's  pure  fleece,  with  a  huge  wolf  in, 
Her  young  love  placed  in  his  base  protection, 

Who  cruelly  gained  her  pure  affection, 


2o8  PA  TCH  WORK—JU  VENILE  POEMS 


Lured  her  and  stole  her  honor, 

Left  her  with  the  world's  scorn  upon  her, 
Henceforth  upon  her  character  a  stain, 

A  blight  to  mar  for  aye,  her  name  : 
Society's  doors  were  closed,  she  soon  descried, 

The  vestibules  of  work  denied, 
Such  the  history  of  her  they  found  to-day, 

Frozen  to  death  on  the  cold  railway. 


A  SPARK  AT  THE  BOTTOM. 


THE  fire  wouldn't  eo,  and  what  to  do,  I  didn't  know, 

I  was  about  turning  away  in  despair, 
When  down  through  the  dark,  I  discovered  a  spark, 

That  I  soon  revived  with  care. 

How  well  I  felt,  though,  when  a  bright  glow 

Rewarded  my  extra  attention — 
Tho'  everything  looks  dark,  we  may  discover  a  spark, 

That  will  be  worthy  of  mention. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  209 


"GLANCES," 


WHEN  lips  are  so  weak,  that  they  can't  speak, 

And  emotions  well  up  from  the  heart, 

The  eyes  unflinchingly  take  their  part, 
And  how  oft  they  look  well  what  lips  couldn't  tell. 

How  many  thrilling  fancies,  by  some  upward  stealing  glances 

May  have  been  centered  in  the  heart, 

From  which  'twere  agony  to  part — 
Nothing  more  perchance,  than  a  single  passing  glance. 

This  world  is  full  of  meetings,  full  of  silent  greetings, 

That  lips  fain  would  tell, 

And,  perhaps,  'tis,  yea,  well, 
For  highly  do  we  prize  the  looked  greeting  of  the  eyes. 

Only  a  glance  as  we  pass  by,  only  a  glance  of  the  human  eye, 

But  quickly  it  reacheth  the  heart, 

Tho'  we  walk  for  aye  and  aye  apart, 
Though  we  meet  no  more,  till  we  meet  on  that  golden  shore. 

As,  in  that  beauteous  land,  we  in    the  same  mansion  stand 

I  sometimes  pause  and  think, 

As  we  from  the  golden  chalice  drink, 

Will  not  uprise  some  silent  meetings,  may  hap  of  some  eye- 
glance  greetings. 


2io  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


ONLY  A  BLACKSMITH'S  SON. 


"  So  kind,  so  noble,  so  generous  in  his  way, 

Indeed  I  love  him  well, 
But  I'll  be  far  from  here  at  the  close  of  another  day." 

Soliloquized  proud  Adelle, 
"And  then  I'll  try  to  forget  the  heart  I've  won 
'Twill  never  do,  only  a  blacksmith's  son" 

A  maiden  with  silvery  streaks  in  her  hair, 

Looks  o'er  souveniers  cherished  long  and  well, — 

Can  it  be  she  who  was  once  so  fair  ? 
Ah,  yes,  'tis  the  proud  Adelle. 

"  How  I  have  lived  to  rue  the  day, 

I  turned  from  his  warm  love  away. 

"  Swiftly  if  not  gayly  the  years  have  flown, 
But  few  that  don't  make  some  mistake, — 

Then  but  remaineth,  if  I  had  known 
Which  path  was  right  to  take, 

I  regret  that  I  spurned  the  heart  I  won, 

Tho'  'twas  onlv  the  heart  of  a  blacksmith's  son." 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  ail 


MY  WOODLAND  BOWER. 


ASIDE  from  the  hot  sun's  scorching  ray, 
Aside  from  the  noisy  world  to-day, 

Where  only  my  feathered  pets  are  seen, 
Here  'mong  the  ferns  and  hedges  green, 

I  shut  myself  in  : 
Ah,  'tis  my  sanctum  sanctorum  this, 

And  no  malice,  envy  or  sin. 
Entereth  my  haven  of  bliss. 

More  beautiful  than  marble  structure  or  tower, 
"Pis  Nature's  own,  my  woodland  bower, 
It  harboreth  no  thought  of  strife, 
And  here  I  find  poetic  life, — 
Put  books  and  school  away, 
And  bless  this  tranquil  hour, 

Methinks  that  all  around  me  lay, 
Mysterious  books  in  my  woodland  bower. 

Nature  hath  formed  my  bough-twined  seat 
And  a  thousand  books  are  at  my  feet, 

I  behold  one  where  e'er  I  look, 

For  lo  !  the  world's  an  open  book ; 
School-books  for  the  present,  I'll  lay  aside, 

And  study  those  that  I  have  the  power, 
God  shall  be  my  teacher  and  guide, 

The  schoolroom  my  woodland  bower. 


212  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


A  RAY  OF  LIGHT. 


E'EN  when  the  clouds  are  thickest  around, 
E'en  when  grief  is  the  most  profound, 
When  there  seems  left  not  a  star  that  is  bright, 
Still  look  to  discern  one  ray  of  light. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  BRIDE. 

i 

DEATH,  ever  bringing  sadness  and  gloom, 
E'en  dared  to  enter  the  bridal  room, 

Death  passing  by  stopped  and  entered  there, 

And  scanning  the  circle  wide, 
Chose  the  loveliest  and  most  fair, 
And  she  chanced  to  be  a  bride. 
He  feareth  not  to  step  upon  any  floor, 
And  boldly  entereth  the  king's  high  door. 

In  her  bridal  wreath  and  robe  of  white, 

We  resigned  her  to  the  Lamb  of  light ; 

No  thorny  paths  had  she  ever  trod, 

Her  life  was  but  a  spring-time, 
Safe  into  the  arms  of  her  God, 

Did  we  our  lost  darling  resign  ; 
Few  sins  had  she  to  be  forgiven, 
From  a  beautiful  bride,  to  an  angel  in  Heaven. 


PA  TCH  WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  313 


Oh,  why  should  we  shed  one  tear  at  all, 
Or  wish  the  loved  one  to  recall  ? 

Life's  voyage  was  just  before,  she  stood  on  its  verge, 

And  rough  its  tide  might  have  been. 
But  she  never  knew  its  tumultuous  surge, 

She  died  with  her  happy  dream ; 
When  we  have  wended  thro'  life's  boist'rous  tide, 
May  we  again  behold  our  *'  lost,  resplendent  bride." 


JERUSHY  AND  JOE. 


VERY  fleshy  was  Jerushy  Ophat,  well  what  of  that  ? 

Well,  nothing,  as  you  might  say; 
She  fancied  people  very  trim,  so  when  she  met  Joe  Slim, 

They  fell  in  love  straight-way. 

Well,  the  girls  made  fun,  but  they  didn't  run, 

And  how  the  boys  did  act, 
Not  when  the  girls  whispered  low.  "Jerushy's  engaged  to  Joe," 

But  when  'twas  a  decided  fact. 

"  Oh,  well,"  the  boys  would  say,  "  it's  too  bad  any  way, 

Jerushy's  plain-looking,  I  know, 
But  she's  got  a  good  heart,  and  I'm  sure,  for  my  part, 

I  think  she's  too  good  for  Joe." 


214  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


With  a  smile,  the  girls  would  say,  and  turn  scornfully  away, 

"There,  now,  you're  fibbing,  you  know, 
The  truth  I'm  willing  to  tell,  Jerushy  doesn't  look  well, 

And  isn't  good  enough  for  Joe." 

And  so  their  hearts  they'd  discuss,  with  as  much  fuss, 

As  tho'  they'd  been  out  of  the  common  line  ; 
But  Jerushy  and  Joe  minded  not  a  word  of  the  gossip  they  heard, 

But  calmly  abided  their  tims. 

Ten  years  have  passed  away,  since  their  wedding  day, 

And  happily  they  flit  to  and  fro, 

My  friend,  I    know  you  have    sense,  then  have  fun  at   nobody's 
expense, 

Not  even  Jerushy  and  Joe. 


ONLY  A  SILVER  RING. 


INCIDENTAL. 

ONLY  a  silver  ring,  and  yet  methinks  the  angels  sing, 

As  I  handle  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
Ah,  yes,  it  takes  me  back  to  that  bright  flooded  track, 

Gone,  to  return  no  more. 

And  why  tears  should  it  bring,  only  a  silver  ring  ? 

"  Very  simple,"  I  know  you  say, 
But  memory  will  linger,  when  'twas  put  on  my  finger, 

The  eighth  of  that  far-off  May. 


PA  TCH WORK—JU VENILE  POEMS.  21 5 


In  worldly  effects,  Ralph  was  poor,  but  no  other  wooer, 

E'er  held  a  place  in  my  heart, 
Rich  girl  and  poor  lover,  the  tale  of  many  another, 

We  were  forced  to  part. 

But  none  other  my  heart  could  win,  I  remained  true  to  him, 

And  he  crossed  the  ocean's  tide, 
Deceit's  broad  iron  fetter,  an  intercepted  letter, 

He  won  a  foreign  bride. 

A  heart  generous  and  brave,  he  found  a  watery  grave, 

In  saving  the  life  of  a  friend, 
Thus  for  awhile  we're  parted,  but  I'll  e'er  prove  true-hearted 

Till  my  sad  life  shall  end. 

Friends  scarcely  know  me  now,  child  of  the  sunny  brow 

Grief  such  changes  does  bring, 
Life  is  so  bleak,  and  I  am  so  lonely  and  weak, 

But  I  cherish  the  silver  ring. 


PURITY  UNDEFILED. 


WE'D  e'er  lift  an  unfaltering  hand  to  turn  aside  sin's  cup, 
Ever  reach  forth  to  lift  a  fallen  sister  up, 
We'd  e'en  turn  to  those  low  down  in  vice  and  shame, 
Nor  yet  would  we  despair  of  the  vilest  name. 


ai6  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


We'd  not  pause  to  think  that  of  those  gone  astray, 
Such  poor  trifling  hopes  at  the  bottom  lay ; 
But  firmly  reach  forth  a  warm,  reclaiming  hand, 
Despite  the  shallow  ground  on  which  we  mflst  stand ; 
Yet  joyfully  we  turn  to  polish  every  pure  name, 
That  it  never  may  wear  a  blemish  or  stain, 
For  purity  once  blemished,  purity,  can  not  be  styled, 
And  we'd  strive  to  keep  purity,  purity  undefiled. 


FAREWELL. 


Ah,  the  words  wherewith  to  express  the  sensations 
Of  my  overflowing  heart  come  not  to  these  trembling  lips, 
And  Oh,  I  offer  to  you,  my  friends, 
As  a  substitute  for  the  welling  emotions  of  this  minute, 
The  equivalent  of  a  volume  wrapped  in  the  solemn  word, 
Farewell ! 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  217 


THE  OLD  HILL  FARM. 


INSCRIBED    TO    E.    C. 

Tis  old,  and  affords  but  a  shelter  from  the  storm, 

But,  oh,  I  love  it — the  house  where  I  was  born — 
'Tis  the  spot  of  childish  sports  and  plays, 
Here  standeth  still  the' time- worn  barn, 
And,  oh,  the  cherished  memories  of  by-gone  days, 
That  cluster  round  the  old  hill-farm  : 

Weary,  dejected,  and  almost  forlorn, 

Still  dear  is  the  spot  where  I  was  born. 

Here  first  my  eyes  beheld  the  light, 
Here  pattered  my  feet  in  childish  delight, 

Here  I  watched  the  sun  rise  at  early  morn, 

Its  last  golden  rays  watched  here, 

Oh,  'tis  the  spot  where  I  was  born, 

And  here  center  associations  dear. 
It  seemeth  to  me  as  a  shield  from  harm,  \ 

And  dear  to  me  is  the  old  hill-farm. 


218  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Each  spot  some  sweet  old  story  does  tell, 

I  fain  would  not  leave  it  'mong  strangers  to  dwell, 

Here  wandered  my  father's  departed  feet, 

Here  oft'  my  mother's  stood, 

Familiar  objects  my  eyes  do  greet, 

That  carry  me  back  to  childhood, — 
Here  brothers  and  sisters  have  laughed  and  wept, 
And  friends  who  long  in  the  grave  have  slept. 

I'm  a  man  now,  past  middle  life, 

Have  fought  in  many  a  fierce  field  of  strife, 

Have  wished  myself  in  "  parts  unknown," 

Almost  that  my  life  would  end, 

So  rough  the  tempests  have  blown, 

And  Fate,  nothing  but  ills  would  send ; 
'Tis  the  only  thing  still  holdeth  a  charm, 
"Tis  dear  to  me — the  old  hill-farm. 


SHE  ANSWERED  NO. 


INCIDENTAL. 

ON  that  scene-,  just  past  the  hour  of  twilight. 

So  many  years  ago, 
Surely  the  angels  looked  that  night, 

And  bade  her  answer  no ; 

For,  'twas  but  a  boyish  heart  he  would  have  given, 
Surely  the  angels  looked  down  from  Heaven. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS,  2ig 


It  may  have  been  a  pleasant  scene, 

While  lips  were  preparing  to  meet, 
But  then,  'twas  only  a  youthful  dream, 

Tho'  for  the  moment,  'twas  very  sweet,— 
Perchance  the  lips  may  have  even  met, 
And  yet,  'twas  not  very  hard  to  forget. 

Surely  the  angels  were  good  to  bless 

That  little  twilight  scene, 
Suppose  that  she  had  answered  yes, — 

Draw  the  curtain  quick  between  : 
The  angels  whispered  that  eve  soft  and  low, 
And  firmly,  but  gently,  she  answered  no. 

At  first  it  seemed  a  crushing  dart, 

Something  'twould  be  hard  to  get  over, 

For  she  had  won  the  yielding  heart, 
Of  her  impulsive,  but  youthful  lover. 

That  it  was  well,  how  plainly  does  time  show, 

The  angels  whispered  that  eve,  and  she  answered  no. 


220  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


TWO  HOMES. 


Two  pretty  brides  were  Jennie  and  May, 

Vividly  I  recall  them  now, 
Both  stood  at  the  altar  the  self-same  day, — 

I  hear  the  marriage  vow. 
May,  with  her  dear  sweet  face, 

Was  going  to  marry  poor, 
But  Jennie  with  many  a  winning  grace, 

Had  a  very  wealthy  wooer. 

"  Marry  so  poor,"  said  Jennie,  with  a  frown, 

I  don't  see  how  you  can, 
I'm  going  to  have  a  house  in  town, 

"  t  never  could  marry  a  poor  man ;" 
But  Jennie  got  over  her  little  pet, 

And  both  went  up  the  aisle  a  bride, 
And  though  my  eyes  for  both  were  wet, 

I  thought  May  has  the  better  side. 

That  house  is  large,  but  it  wants  for  care, 

And  doesn't  look  neat  within, 
Showing  at  once  that  the  dwellers  there, 

Surely  didn't  rightly  begin. 
This  one  is  smaller,  but  all  is  tasteful  around, 

And  there's  a  cheerful  aspect  of  care, 
Peace  and  happiness  there  abound, 

For  love  and  contentment  are  there. 


PA  TCH  WORK—JU  VENILE  POEMS. 


As  I  beheld  them  then  with  tearful  eye, 

Beheld  each  one  a  bride, 
Though  ten  years  have  since  gone  by, 

I  think  May  has  the  better  side. 


I  WAIT  BESIDE  THE  RIVER. 


A  walk  beside  the  Mohawk — an  old  woman  who  had  met  with  the- 
bitterest  disappointments  of  life,  sitting  in  a  deep  reverie,  regardless 
of  time — suggests  the  following: 

I  WAIT,  and  wait,  and  wait  in 'vain, 
For  this  poor  head,  so  racked  with  pain, 
Bids  me  not  when  to  turn  away, 
And  so  for  weary  hours  I  stay, 
'Till  the  evening  mist  sends  a  shiver, 
I  wait,   wait  beside  the  river. 

Here  I  dream  of  life's  few  bright  hours, 
Recall  the  slight  scattering  of  flowers, 
That  strewed  so  briefly  life's  pathway, 
Then  faded  e'er  the  close  of  day ; 
To  my  heart  comes  pain's  sharp  quiver, 
Still,  I  wait  beside  the  river. 


222  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


I  gave  ambition  a  firm  grasp, 
And  love  was  warm  within  my  clasp, 
For  a  brief  moment  life  was  bright, 
Then  suddenly  came  the  Night ; 
Ambition,  cold  deceiver,  false,  but  fine, 
Love,  worshiper  at  Fashion's  shrine. 

Silver  streaks  the  once  brown  hair, 
Lines  mar  the  cheek  once  fair, 
And  the  eye  of  melting  gray, 
(As  it  was  called  in  Fortune's  day, 
When  I  was  flattered  and  admired,) 
Weareth  a  look  sleepy  and  tired. 
•  -• 

As  I  watch  Time  keen  whet  his  knife, 
I  ask  myself,  what  is  life  ? 
And  the  answer  comes  softly  back, 
While  a  voyager  on  Life's  rough  track, 
Trust  Him,  the  bountiful  Giver : 
And  thus  I  wait  beside  the  river. 


DELPHINE. 


I  PAUSE  beside  this  flower-decked  mound, 
Recall  her  whom  fifteen  years  had  cycled  round, 

Naught  but  gladness  hadst  thou  seen, — 
In  this  cold  world  with  so  rough  a  lot, 
Is  it  wrong  to  envy  thy  resting  spot  ? 

Oh,  thrice  happy  Delphine ! 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  283 


Bright  were  the  prospects  thy  path  before, 
Friends  hadst  thou  by  the  score, 

And  wealth  flowed  in  an  unbroken  stream ; 
But  thou  migh'st  one  day  have  lost  them  all, 
And  I  see  the  wisdom  of  that  early  call, — 

A  welcome  Home,  sweet  Delphine ! 

Thou  migh'st  known  Ambition's  fond  delusions, 
And  Love's  gilded,  but  vain  illusions, 

Have  keenly  felt  and  seen  ; 
Thou  migh'st  been  left  without  a  home, 
Or  e'en  a  friend  to  call  thine  own, — 

Better  so,  lovely  Delphine  ! 

Right  out  from  a  world  of  harm, 
Fresh  thy  many  a  youthful  charm, — 

Oh,  had'st  thou  another  score  have  seen, 
This  world  with  all  its  glitter  and  glare, 
To  the  might  not  have  been  so  fair, 

Happy  art  thou,  lovely  Delphine ! 

As,  I  pause  beside  this  flower-decked  mound, 
Dear  One,  whom  fifteen  years  had  cycled  round, 

Enviable  is  thy  bed  of  green, — 
No  thorny  pathway  had'st  thou  trod, 
Eere  thou  wert  taken  to  the  bosom  of  God, 

Lovely,  early  crowned  Delphine ! 


224  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


MAY  AND  NOVEMBER. 


INCIDENTAL. 

ARM  in  arm  they  walked  up  the  flower-strewn  aisle, 
Light  hearts  and  lips  wreathed  with  a  happy  smile, 
Up  to  the  altar,  May  and  November,  side  by  side, 
And  the  village  teacher  becomes  a  Merchant's  bride. 

And  the  light  gossip,  conjuring  if  possible,  the  reason, 
Why  Lucy  Randolph  should  gain  "  the  catch"  of  the  season. 
Why  mammas  frowned  and  daughters  repined  ? 
Ah,  his  pockets  with  yellow  gold  were  lined. 

But  while  the  sun  shall  rise  and  at  night  go  down, 
November  upon  May  will  not  cease  to  frown ; 
Two  months  of  such  unlike,  opposition  weather, 
May  and  November  can  never  walk  together. 

November's  cold  restraint  injures  the  flowery  May, 
And  visibly  she  weareth  from  his  side  for  aye  and  aye, — 
Servants  and  carriage  at  her  will  and  command, 
She'd  give  them  all  to  free  her  hand. 

Freely  resign  her  satins  rich,  and  jewels  rare, 
To  free  her  fettered  mind  from  its  burden  of  care, 
And  fain  would  exchange  for  her  servant's  part, 
Could  she  give  her  hand  where's  gone  her  heart. 


PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  225 


For  that  was  left  across  the  stormy  waters, 
Her  penalty  for  vying  with  mothers  and  daughters, 
The  soft  black  eyes  across  the  stormy  deep, 
Made  sad  havoc  in  her  midnight  sleep. 

The  light  and  sunken  eyes  on  the  pillow  beside  her  own, 
And  the  harsh  gray  locks  from  which  all  beauty'd  flown, 
And  the  hollow  cheeks  sunken  at  each  side. 
Illy  contrasted  with  those  across  the  tide. 

But  unknown  to  him  love's  sacred  flame, 
But  for  the  unconscious  breathing  of  a  name, — 
"  Go,"  said  he,  "  I'll  see  you  across  the  stormy  tide. 
I  see  now  you  should  have  been  another's  bride." 

"  No,  no,  however  much  that  step  I  may  regret, 
Thank  God,  I'm  not  so  sinful  yet, 
Thine  till  death  shall  loose  the  chain, 
If  not  God,  man  hath  joined  us  twain." 

Five  years,  and  Death  stopped  at  last, 
In  the  mansion  he  so  oft'  had  passed  : 
The  busy  brain  and  active  hand  were  stilled, 
To  her  was  his  princely  fortune  willed. 

Three  years  since  reverently  she  closed  his  eyes, 
And  once  more  she  yearned  for  Italy's  sunny  skies; 
And  so  she  crossed  again  the  mighty  deep, 
And  climbed  again  Tivoili's  romantic  steep." 


226  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Once  more  in  Nature's  works  she  took  delight, 
Found  charms  in  Venice's  golden  light, 
And  finding  strength  and  spirit  again  her  own, 
She  went  where  they  once  had  been — to  Rome. 

A  lovely  morn,  early  in  the  bright  Italian  May, 
When  a  party  mostly  young,  and  of  spirits  gay, 
Set  forth  to  see  St.  Mona's  mystic  Convent  gloom, 
And  explore  the  mysteries  of  ancient  Rome. 

Who  shall  deny  the  Providence  manifest  in  all  ? 
The  ramblers  paused  beside  a  grand  old  waterfall, 
And  sweet  Lucy  recalling  the  mysterious  Sybil's  fane, 
Pondered  her  words :  "  Thou  wilt  be  happy  again." 

But  while  they  gazed  on  the  scene  by  Nature  painted, 
A  sudden  scream,  and  Lucy'd  fainted : 
Round  the  evening  shadows  began  to  steal, 
As  they  bore  her  into  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 

Ah,  'twas  no  mere  idle  whim  or  fancy, 
Her  preserver  was  Raphael  De  Lancy ; 
He  knew  not  that  she  heired  a  large  estate, 
Nor  she,  that  he  had  rank  and  honor  great. 

And  tho'  for  matronly  grace  she'd  resigned  her  girlish  smile, 
A  happier  bride  ne'er  glided  up  St.  Peter's  aisle ; 
And  when  again  she  crossed  the  Atlantic's  tide, 
The  dearest  one  of  earth  was  at  her  side. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  227 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


AH,  yes,  another  year  with  its  rapid  flight, 
With  its  promised  pleasures  that  deceive, 

Another  year  with  all  its  changes,  great  or  slight, 
Brings  us  to  Christmas  eve. 

My  mind  is  wandering  far  away, — 
May  I  not  my  dear  Father  grieve, 

To  my  mind  there  rushes  a  brighter  day, 
Revived  by  Christmas  eve.   ' 

My  mind  is  flightv,  but  my  heart  is  true, 

Dear  Father,  I'll  look  to  thee, 
For  thou  wilt  kindly  lead  me  through, 

And  guide  me  o'er  Life's  treacherous  sea. 
FRIDAY  EVE.,  Dec.  24,1874. 


WAITING  AT  THE  WINDOW. 


SONG. 

WAITING  at  the  window,  waiting  at  the  window  for  thee, 
The  footstep  that  so  oft  I've  heard, 

I'm  waiting  now  to  hear, 
Its  echo  like  the  song  of  a  bird, 

Is  ringing  in  my  ear  : 

Thy  footstep  shall  I  hear,  and  thy  face  shall  I  see, 
Waiting  at  the  window,  waiting  at  the  window  for  thee  ? 


228  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Waiting  at   the  window,  waiting  at  the  window  for  thee, 
Waiting,  though  'tis  early  in  the  morn. 

And  the  clouds  are  dark  and  gray, 
Oh,  will  thy  well-known  form 

Pass  my  window  to-day  ? 

Thy  footstep  shall  I  hear,   and  thy  face  shall    I  see, 
Waiting  at  the  window,  waiting  at  the  window  for  thee  ? 

Waiting  at  the  window,  waiting  at  the  window  for  thee, 
Though  the  clouds  are  dark  without, 

Our  Father  knoweth  best : 
And  he  can  clear  the  heart  from  doubt, 

And  faith  in  Him  can  test, 

Thy  footstep  I  shall  hear,  and  thy  face  I  shall  see, 
Waiting  at  the  window,  waiting  at  the  window  for  thee 

Waiting  at  the  window,  waiting  at  the  window  for  thee 
Every  cloud  is  fast  disappearing, 

And  the  sun  begins  to  shine, 
Every  doubt  in  my  mind  is  clearing, 

Thy  will,  oh,  God,  be  mine  : 

Thy  footstep  I  shall  hear,  and  thy  face  I  shall  see, 
Waiting  at  the  window,  waiting  at  the  window  for  thee. 

Waiting  at  the  window,  waiting  at  the  window  for    thee, 
It  conies  !  and  what  music  it  brings, 

The  welcome  sound  I  hear, 
And  my  Guardian  Angel  sings, 

As  it  reaches  my  ear. 

For  thy  footstep  I  hear,  and  thy  face  I  see, 
Waiting  at  the  window,  waiting  at  the  window  for  thee. 


PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  229 


Waiting  at  the  window,  waiting  at  the  window  for  thee, 
Now  every  cloud  has  gone  from  above. 

And  th?  sun  is  shining  bright, 
And  well  I. know  that  God  is  love, 

And  doeth  all  things  right. 
Thy  footstep  I  hear,  and  thy  face  I  see, 
Waiting  at  the  window,  waiting  at  the  window  for  thee. 


THE  MORNING  KISS. 


SUGGESTED    BY    A    PICTURE. 

AH!    I  see  the  little  curly  head,  just  peeping  from  out  its  bed, 

And  the  next  thing  is  a  kiss. 

What  a  happy  moment  this  ! 
It  fills  my  cup  of  joy,  the  kiss  of  my   lading  baby  boy ! 

I  fear  too  bright  my  sun    does  shine,  and  while  his  lips  meet 
mine, 

There  cometh  a  feeling  of  sadness, 

While  my  heart  is  full  of  gladness, — 
What  a  blank  world  this,  without  that  morning  kiss ! 

With  his  little  mite  of  song,  he  creepeth  lovingly  along, 

Closes  his  star-like  eyes, 

Slightly  on  his  knees  does  rise, 
Not  a  word  does  speak,  while  he  leaves  a  kiss  upon  my  cheek. 


230  PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Little  pet  only  three  years  old,  but  his  wealth  of  love  is  untold, 

And  I  count  it  supreme  bliss, 

To  feel  his  soft  morning  kiss ; 
But  I  must  set  no  great  store,  lest  my  cup  full  of  jo;y  run  o'e{, 


SUNLIGHT  IN  THE  EAST. 


IANY  a  day  the  ceaseless  patter  and  dull  trickle  of  rain, 

Have  cast  a  cloud  o'er  this  charming  section, 
Low  down  in  the  valley  and  up  on  the  plain, 

Leaving  a  somber  hue  in  every  direction. 
Here  to  quaff  the  beauties  that  environ  the  sea  shore, 
But  no  ray  of  sunlight  have  we  seen  here  before, 
But  the  clouds  have  dispersed,  and  the  sun  has  come  forth, 

O'er  the  gorgeous  scene  our  eyes  we  will  feast, 
For,  oh,  how  deeply  do  we  prize  the  worth, 

Of  the  first  sunlight  we've  seen  in  the  East. 
KINGSBURY,  MASS.,  Aug.,  1873, 


THE  YOUNG  MAN'S  FAREWELL  TO  HOME. 


HOME  of  my  childhood,  home  of  my  youth,  I  leave  thee  now> 

Home  of  Memory's  sweetest  scenes, 

Home  of  my  youthful  dreams! 
Manlier  will  have  grown  this  still  puerile  brow, 

Ere  again  1  behold  these  evergreens; 


PA  TCHWORK—JU  VENILE  POEMS.  2  31 


But  now  I  must  close  the  old  familiar  gate, 
And  hasten,  why  should  I  longer  wait? 
My  frail  bark  is  just  launching  on  life's  great  sea, 
And  shall  it  in  the  future  waft  joy  or  grief  to  me  ? 

Father  mother,  brother,  sister,  I  leave  you  all  behind, 

Forth  into  the  world  alone  I  go, 

Many  temptations  I  may  know, 
I  shall  iiiss  those  words  so  mild,  so  calm  and  kind, 

Thi.t  e'er  in  gentle  accents  flow : 
Yes,  I  leave  you  to  sail  out  on  life's  stormy  tide, 
I  leave  you,  dear  ones,  asking  Divine  power  to  guide — 
To  guide  and  waft  niy  timerous,  shallow  bark, 
Which  mist  encounter  clouds,  fearful  offimas,  and  dark. 

One  lingering  look,  which,  perchance,  may  be  the  last, 
Home  of  my  childhood  and  youth, 
Homt  of  sweet  lessons — devotion  and  truth : 

Ah,  merry  days,  and  how  fleetlv  ye  have  passed  ! 
But  wiy  vain  regrets,  forsooth  ? 

Dear  ones,  who've  shared  with  me  each  joy  and  sigh. 

Father,  mo:her,  brother,  sister,  all  good-bye ! 

Time  hasteis,  I  must  break  the  magic  spell, 

Home  of  rry  affection,  fare  thee  well ! 


PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


THE  YOUNG  MAN'S  RETURN  TO  HOME. 


VEARS  have  run  into  a  channel  numbered  four, 
Since  I  left  thee,  beloved  home, 
It  seems  that  I'd  even  older  grown, 

So  many  miles  of  experience  have  I  passed  o'er, 
And  been  by  such  fierce  winds  blown : 

Old  home  welcome  the  wanderer  as  he  come, 

Room,  too,  and  welcome  for  another  one, 

A  welcome  warmer  and  more  dear, 

For  her  who  comes  a  stranger  here. 

Home  that  I  left — there's  the  old  familiar  gate — 

Ah,  Memory,  hush  !  be  still ! 

Why  hint  against  my  will, 
That  'twas  a  rendezvous  for  me  and  Kate  ? 

There's  no  niche  but  love  now  fill, 
And  yet,  in  a  sweet,  sad,  long-buried  dream, 
There's  a  little  grave  o'ergrown  with  green, 
If  she  had  lived — but  all  is  for  the  best, 
Peace  to  the  little  form  the  sod  thus  early  pres 


There's  the  barn,  the  orchard,"spot  of  childish  plays, 
Four  years  have  touched  thee  lightly, 
For  the  sun  but  shines  more  brightly, 

Upon  thee  now,  than  e'en  in  former  days, 
Each  scene  is  sure  as  fair  and  sightly, — 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  233 


Ah,  you  hasten  to  welcome  me,  my  father,  mother, 
Enlarge  that  welcome  then  to  enfold  another, 
Sister,  mother — all — a  better  one  is  waiting  now, 
Place  the  warmest  kiss  upon  her  brow. 


A  PICTURE  OF  MEMORY. 

A  SPACIOUS  storehouse  filled  with  many  a  choice  thing, 

The  sweetest  and  the  best, 
I've  flowers  that  bloom  and  birds  that  sing, 

And  much  that  gives  me  rest. 
Many  a  picture  gilded  and  rare, 

Hangs  on  Memory's  wall, 
But  of  all  the  pictures  hung  with  care, 

One  seemeth  better  than  all. 
I've  pictures  of  forests  dim  and  gray, 

And  pieces  of  toys  broken, 
And  visions  of  gardens  bright  and  gay, 

And  many  a  childish  token ; 
A  Chromo  of  happy  childhood's  hours, 

Has  a  lovely  perfumed  frame, 
And  bunches  of  faded  myrtle  and  flowers, 

Each  labeled  with  a  name ; 
And  there's  a  face  with  eyes  of  black, 

Once  my  teacher  and  guide, 
When  first  o'er  the  stormy  track, 

My  feet  commenced  to  slide, —  : 


234  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Then  there's  a  cottage  by  sweet  briar  kissed, 

And  pansies  before  the  door, 
Then  a  dim,  uncertain  mist, 

The  cottage  is  no  more. 
Then  there  are  schools  loved  and  dear, 

The  Cottage  and  Houghton  Sera, 
And  an  old  red  building  in  the  rear, 

That  was  hung  be^pre  them, — 
Sweet  faces  that  did  my  mind  direct ; 

And  two  other  schools  are  there, 
Only  called  by  the  name  Select, 

And  a  familiar  look  they  wear. 
I've  pictures,  too,  of  a  later  date, 

Scarcely  soiled  by  time, 
I've  pictures  small,  and  pictures  great, 

Whose  originals  once  were  mine. 
But  of  all  the  pictures  hung  with  care, 

Hung  on  Memory's  wall, 
There's  one  seems  more  sad  and  fair, 

That  seemeth  best  of  all. 
A  day  in  the  month  of  October, 

A  little  hand  clasped  in  mine, 
A  face  by  turns  merry  and  sober, 

Playing  strawberry  time  ; 
A  playhouse  by  the  moss-covered  well, 

'Neath  the  Sycamore  branches  nigh, 
Our  only  dish  a  scraped  out  cocoanut  shell, 

The  people,  my  cousin  Willie  and  I ; 
And  of  all  the  pictures  on  Memory's  wall, 

Pictures  hung  with  care, 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  235 


I  prize  that  one  above  them  all, 

It  looketh  sad  but  fair. 
Near  where  the  Sycamore  Branches  wave, 

Softly,  calmly  and  stilly, 
I've  hung  the  picture  of  a   little  grave, 

The  grave  of  cousin  Willie. 
Of  those  hours  so  joyful  and  gay, 

When  last  I  played  with  him, 
Of  that  far  off,  gladsome  day, 

I've  only  a  picture,  and  that  is  dim ; 
But  of  all  the  chromos  on  Memory's  wall, 

Though  it  is  faded  and  gray, 
To  me,  it  seemeth  best  of  all, 

The  picture  of  that  day. 

HAPPY  NEW  YEAR,  DEAR  MAMMA! 


THE  Old  Year  has  gone,  mamma,  we've  stepped  thro'  the  protean 

door, 

To  welcome  the  successor  of  Eighteen-seventy-four : 
Four  seasons  more  have  rolled  away, 

They've  bro't  sorrow  in  multifarious  forms, 
Some  sunshine  sprinkled  along  the  way, 

To  appease  life's  beating  storms; 
But  the  year  with  its  wondrous  vicissitudes  is  o'er, 
We've  said  good-bye  to  'Seventy-four ; 
And  as  we  this  day  have  lived  to  see, 

A  happy  New  Year,  mamma — 
A  happy  New  Year  let  me  wish  to  thee  ! 


236  PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Misfortunes  have  come,  yet  would  I  strive, 
To  smile  on  the  ushering  day  of  'Seventy-five  ; 
Truly,  it  is  in  the  year  that  is  past, 

We've  met  the  reverses  of  !ife, 
Which  e'en  now  dark  clouds  overcast, 

And  fiercest -of  tempests  are  rife; 
Still  we'd  smile  on  the  New  Year,  dear  mother, 
Grateful  we're  spared  to  behold  another ; 

And  amid  the  hurricanes  that  threaten  life's  sea, 

I'll  turn,  and  a  happy  New  Year  mamma — 
A  happy  New  Year  I'll  wish  to  thee! 

CHICAGO,  Jan.  i.,  1875. 

BUSY  THE  HAND  TO  STILL  THE  HEART. 


WHEN  the  world  looks  dark,  and  the  heart  beats  swift, 

O'ercome  with  many  a  piercing  dart, 
Then  bid  patience  her  magic  wand  up-lift, 

And  busy  the  hand  to  still  the  heart. 

When  the  heart  is  bubbling  over  with  sorrow, 
And  throbs  of  anguish  thro'  each  nerve  start, 

Questioning  Hope  in  vain  for  a  bright  to-morrow, 
Then  busy  the  hand  to  still  the  heart. 

When  on  the  edge  of  despair  you  sit, 

From  steadfast  Faith  apart, 
When  the  lamp  of  Courage's  no  longer  lit, 

Busy  the  hand  to  still  the  heart. 


PATCHWORK—  JUVENILE  POEMS.  237 


When  the  roughest  storms  that  life  may  know, 
Cause  trembling  and  fear  to  start, 

When  tempests  of  strife  all  hurriedly  blow, 
Busy  the  hand  to  still  the  heart. 


SLEEP,  DEAR  MOTHER. 


On  discovering  the  loss  of  MSS.,  and  canvassing  list  and  other 
properly  after  the  July  fire. 

GENTLY,  dear  Mother,  gently  sleep, 

Knowing  not  the  tumults  deep, 
That  in  thy  darling's  breast  are  pounding; 

Gently,  dear  Mother,  gently  sleep, 

For  the  angels  a  vigil  keep, 
O'er  the  heart's  pulsing  and  bounding. 

Gently,  dear  Mother,  gently  sleep, 

For  'twould  but  cause  thee  to  weep, 
To  know  of  the  wild  surging  and  throbbing; 

Gently,  dear  Mother,  gently  sleep, 

For  angels  a  vigil  keep, 
While  anguish  of  sweet  rest  is  robbing. 

Gently.  Dear  Mother,  gently  sleep, 
f  For  God  watcheth  his  sheep, 
E'en  while  the  elements  are  raging; 

Gently,  dear  Mother,  gently  sleep, 

For  the  angels  a  vigil  keep, 
While  the  tempest  each  tho't  is  engaging. 


238  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Gently,  dear  Mother,  gently  sleep, 

For  my  cares  shall  not  sweep 
O'er  thy  peaceful  pillow  a  pain ; 

Gently,  dear  Mother,  gently  sleep, 

For  the  angels  a  vigil  keep, 
O'er  the  heart  s  garden  where  frost  work  is  lain. 

Gently,  dear  Mother,  gently  sleep, 

For  quietness  may  creep, 
O'er  my  disturbed  and  restless  pillow  ; 

Gently,  dear  Mother,  gently  sleep, 

For  angels  a  vigil  keep, 
To  quiet,  if  best,  each  foaming  billow. 


THE  UNKNOWN  TOMB. 


VAST  Monument !  that  with  sublimity  doth  stand, 
To  memorize  the  fallen  heroes  of  our  land  ! 

Glorious  Monument,  proud  and  grand ! 
By  thy  cold,  unpitying  side  we  pause  arid  weep, 

For  those  who  once  made  happy  many  a  home, 
Who  now  beneath  this  art-carved  marble  sleep, 

The  tomb  engraved  "  unknown;" 

And  in  fancy  we  hear  the  drums,  behold  the  sword  and  shiel 
And  the  dark  scenes  of  a  Southern  battle-field ! 

Over  these  unknown  ones  we  shed  a  tribute  tear, 
Over  the  fallen  heroes  who  now  are  sleeping  here, 
Who  fell  undaunted,  and  without  fear  ; 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  239 


Here  we  would  twine  a  memorial  wreath  o'er  their  brow, 
Though  no  record  bear  their  personal  fame, 

Here  we  would  not  forget  them  now, 

Tho'  nativity  be  unknown,  alike  unknown  their  name, 

Know  that  they  a  brave  heroic  life  did  yield, 

Recall  to  mind  that  blood-strewn  battle-field ! 

And  now  as  this  hallowed  spot  we  turn  to  leave, 
Let  fond  memory,  and  affection  weave 

A  garland  o'er  which  time  may  breathe  ; 
Yet  never  pale  and  dim  with  sighs  or  tears, 

A  garland  that  but  brighter  grows, 
As  time  forms  a  wide  abyss  of  years, 

Such  a  garland  for  these  fallen  heroes, 
Whom  thou  unknown  tomb  doth  shield, 
Unknown  ones  of  a  Southern  battle-field  ! 
And  may  our  successors  when  high  Time's  pyramid  doth  loom 

Muse  sometimes  beside  the  "  Unknown  Tomb." 

i 
WASHINGTON,  D.  C.,  Dec.  20,  1873. 


EXPECT  THE  WORST  AND  HOPE  FOR  THE  BEST. 


IN  this  world  where  waves  of  trouble  ever  are  rolling, 

And  discouragement  is  ofttimes  a  guest, 
If,  perchance,  there's  a  fond  hope  with    its  gentle  consoling, 

Expect  the  worst  and  hope  for  the  best. 


240  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


There's  a  full  cup  of  joy,  perhaps,  that's  almost  your  own, 
And  may  soon  in  your  expectant  clasp  rest, 

Yet  many  such  ones  rude  winds  have  blown, 
Then  expect' the  worst  and  hope  for  the  best. 

Where  life  were  witness  to  volumes  of  incoming  sorrow, 
And  for  the  faint  possibility  of  a  forthcoming  joy  thirst, 

Blight  not  the  hope,  nor  undue  misgivings  borrow, 

Nor  less  hope  for  the  best,  but  be  prepared  for  the  wors.. 

The  best  needs  no  precedent  its  arrival  to  announce. 

'Twill  be  joyfully  welcomed  as  animation  will  attest, 
But  Oh,  lest  its  rival  swoop  down  with  deft,  sudden    pounce, 

Calmly  expect  the  worst,  still  hope  for  the  best. 

An  emergency  armor  were  safe  fortified  by  an  alternative  plan 
For  there's  many  an  if  in  this  field  of  contest, 

And  much  that  is  promising  may  prove  but  a  sham, 
Then  expect  the  worst  and  hope  for  the  best. 


DEAD. 


ANOTHER  bud  hath  withered  now 
Only  six  months  o'er  its  little  head, 

Yet  cold  and  still  the  snowy  brow, 
The  infant  boy  is  dead. 


PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


In  that  little  crib  now  set  aside, 
May  rest  other  brows  of  snow, 

And  who'll  think  ot  the  baby  that  died- 
That  died  so  long  ago  ? 

Tho'   there  in  infant  beauty  rest, 

The  form  of  many  another, 
Tho'ts  of  the  lost  will  haunt  the  breast 

Of  that  fond  and  loving  mother. 

"  Finis"  is  once  more  engraved 

On  time's  hoary  page, 
And  we  know  that  he  is  saved, 

Sweet  one  of  beauty's  age. 

The  angels  on  their  glorious  throne, 
His  pearly  brow  are  kissing, 

And  they  will  bless  the  vacant  home, 
Where  his  little  form  is  missing. 


BENEATH  WHITE  TIES. 


INCIDENTAL. 


'TWAS  a  marble  mansion,  tall  and  stately  grand, 
Fortune  smiled  benignly  on  their  store, 

And  many  was  the  outstretched  hand, 
Bore  a  tribute  from  their  door : 


242  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS, 


On  the  wings  of  joy,  Charity  was  bade  to  perch, 

As  Time  fulfilled  its  marked  rotation, 
The  wayside  beggar,  the  College,  and  the  Church, 

Shared  in  their  magnificent  donation ; 
But  alas,  how  fleeting  the  possessions  of  frail  human  life  ! 
The  heart  of  Prosperity  rent  by  one  stroke  of  Fate's  quick  acrid 
knife ! 

Why  the  ins  and  outs,  and  whys  and  wherefores  here  repeat  ? 

A  weary  trudge  the  acme  of  prosperity  to  reach, 
Only  one  step  from  the  affluent  broker  to  a  beggar  in  the  street, 

So  doth  delusive  Fortune  teach ! 
A  sinking  ship  on  a  rough,  raging  tide, — 

A  burning  and  crashing  of  the  marble  block, 
A  widow  with  five  children  at  her  side, 

Sits  in  the  cradle  where  want    and  sorrow  rock .' 
So  slender  the  thread  on  which  hangs  joy  or  woe, 
That  in  either,  it  may  break  before  we  know. 

She  had  succored  others,  the  world  would  not  forget  her, 

The  world  was  not  prone  perchance  to  remember; 
While  whispered  words,  winks  and  nods  would  occur, 

In  the  stone  edifice  of  which  she  was  a  member ; 
But  there  is  a  Temple  not  reared  by  mortal  hand, 

On  which,  we  our  hopes  may  build  : 
A  loftier  temple  that  will  always  stand 

With  fair  heart  treasures  filled. 

Blest  tho't,  said  she,  there's  still  One  Divine   Spirit  of  the  skies! 
Who  scanneth  all,  nor  is  deceived  by  wearing  of  white  ties. 


PATCHWORK—  JUVENILE  POEMS.  243 


A  SHINING  TEMPLE. 


AH,  there's  a  shining  Temple  on  a  Hill, 

And  its  lights  illume  for  aye, 
And  it  never  bringeth  woe  nor  ill, 

To  those  that  pass   that   way. 

A  brighter  Temple  than  e'er  was  built  by  hand, 

It  containeth  jewels  rich  and  rare, 
Brilliant  gems  from  all  the  lands 

Are  closely  clustered  there. 

The  gems  of  Faith,  Hope  and  Contentment, 

Charity  and  all  of  her  allies. 
And  Hatred,  Envy  or  Resentment, 

Ne'er  in  its  precincts  lies. 

On  the  Hill  of  Humility,  o'er  the  rill  of  Confession, 
Standeth  Religion's  Temple  so  bright, 

Supported  forever  by  gentle  Discretion, 
Surely,  'tis  a  Temple  of  light. 

But  who  in  this  beautiful  Temple  dwell  ? 

Not  all  who  the  title  claim, 
But  one  day  'twill  be  known  full  well, 

For  there's  a  Record  bears  each  name. 


244  PA  TCH WORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


COLLEGE  HILL." 


IN  a  fair  Eastern  valley  known  as  the  "  Oriskany," 

The  town's  name  I  need  not  mention ; 
Useless  to  crook  it  into  feeble  poesy, 

For  some  will  give  it  their  attention. 
Those  who've  climb'd  that  slope  in  search  of  knowledge 

Must  vividly,  methinks,  remember  still 
The  name  of  town — alike  the  name  of  College 

Which  proudly  stands  upon  this  hill. 

The  town  itself  has  much  for  Memory's  store, 

Nor  with  care  nor  diligence  need  she  search, — 
Three  noted  Temples  of  Learning,  others  a  full  score, 

That  Temple  of  Worship  known  as  the  "  Stone  Church." 
The  Park  just  opposite — but  you'll  know  where — 

The  Burnt  District  (they  talked  of  building — hope  they  will) 
But  all  these  would  court  Oblivion's  air, 

While  Memory  sticks  by  "  College  Hill." 

Oh,  dear !  why  is  it  thus  ?     I'm  sure  I  was  no  favorite  there : 

Young  in  years,  plain  in  looks,  and  void  of  wealth, 
I  couldn't  hope  (and  had  no  wish,  in  fact,)  to  share 

Flirtations,  joys  gained  by  studied  stealth. 
Ah,  kind  teachers !  beware  an  unpretending  book-worm  chit, 

Watch  for  deep  water  tho'  it  may  run  still ; 
Such  an  one  may  have  just  enough  of  wit, 

To  aid  the  boarder's  billet-doux  to  "  College  Hill." 


PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  245 


And  my  favorites  (the  girls  I  mean,  of  course,) 

Oh  !  how  faithfully  I  worked  for  them  ! 
Perhaps  I  ought  to  feel  sorrow  and  remorse 

For  such  an  act  in  that  beloved  Sem. 
But  then,  how  can  I  feel  even  a  blush  of  shame, 

When  their  sweet  smiles  haunt  me  still  ? 
I  guess  that  they'll  remember,  without  a  scribbled  name, 

The  communication  channel  'tween  them  and  "  College  Hill." 

French  and  Grecian  History,  ah,  yes  !  I  loved  them  well, 

But  before  them  float  these  words  upon  my  ear : 
Before  the  heroes  of  Virgil  and  Fasquelle — 

Those  words — shall  I  record  them  here? 
Words  as  some  message  had  by  me  been  wended, 

Sweet  words  that  haunt  me  still : 
"Oh,  I'm  so  much  obliged  !  you're  just  splendid  !  " 

Bright  reminescence  of  yonder  "  College  Hill !  " 

Though  many  a  cosy  haunt  and  favorite  scene 

Rises  to  Memory's  pellucid  sight, 
There's  many  a  fair  and  beauteous  dream, 

Faded  in  dim  Oblivion's  night ; 
But  amid  those  scenes  that  have  gradually  paled  away, 

And  'mid  those  that  are  remaining  still, 
There's  one  that  stands  conspicuous  to-day, 

And  that  is  "College  Hill." 


246  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


ONE  LOVING  HEART." 


TO   MAMMA. 

THE  world  and  its  petty  allurements  thick  around 

Transient  hopes  and  joys  may  fling, 
Bid  happiness  for  awhile  with  us  abound, 

Yet  how  fleet  is-  all  the  joy  they  bring. 
In  undying  rays  of  Love  and  Peace  they  do  not  bask, 

And  how  soon  their  gilded  rays  depart ! 
Oh,  to  prize  them  were  a  sorry  task 

Beside  one  loving  heart. 

The  poet  may  wear  a  laurel  wreath, 

Some  wealth's  baubles  may  enfold; 
And  still  their  gilded  show  beneath 

May  lie  sorrow  and  woe  untold : 
Oh,  who  could  ever  wish  to  wear 

Symbols  that  no  true  peace  impart ; 
What  can  ever  be  as  pure  and  fair 

As  one  loving  heart ! 

Precious  stones  from  Australian  mines, 

Treasures  from  the  distant  sea, — 
Keep  them  !  yes,  a  thousand  times, 

And  leave  one  loving  heart  for  me ! 
Leave  the  monarch  his  palace,  and  queen  her  throne, 

Little  joy  to  me  could  they  impart ; 
Much  rather  would  I  happily  own 

One  loving  heart. 


PA  TCHWQRK— JUVENILE  POEMS.  247 


ON  THE  PINNACLE. 


ON  the  pinnacle  of — may  we  call  it  destruction? 

Led  thither  by  o'ervvhelming  waves  of  despair, 
Viewing  the  pros  of  its  enticing  seduction, — 

And  did  you  ever  stand  there? 
Satan  close  eyeing  distress  lights  on  a  deep  one, 

And  nods  at  allurements  over  the  hill; 
You  may  hint  that  you'll  go,  'tis  your  risk  you  run — 

The  world  says,  go  if  you  will 

Halting  between  two  evils — but  no,  one  evil, 

For  the  other  is  golden-plumed  Right, 
She's  away  from  that  hill,  and  away  from  the  devil, 

Though  dark  are  the  shadows  as  night. 
Pure  death  or  dark  life — then  the  former,  we  cry ! 

Peace  be  to  that  heart  spotless  and  still, 
And  the  cold  world  with  its  cynical  eye, 

Remember,  says  go  if  you  will. 

Somebody,  sometime,  perchance  in  unborn  ages, 

Somewhere,  in  a  native  or  foreign  place, 
May  chance  to  look  on  these  simple  pages, 

While  cold  and  starvation  stare  them  in  face ; 
Then  let  one  whose  sympathy  is  deep  and  untold, 

Conjure  you  to  turn  from  that  hill, 
Stand  firmly  in  the  portals  of  Right's  castle  fold 

For  the  world  says,  go  if  you  will. 


248  PA  TCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS, 


Tis  not  the  world's  loss  or  gain,  but  'tis  yours ; 

Then  keep  your  conscience  and  spotless  name 
For  a  lost  life  the  world  no  grief  endures, 

Nor  knows  a  blush  or  a  tinge  of  shame. 
Consider  you've  a  fortune  at  your  hand, 

While  you  avoid  that  Satanic  hill ; 
Face  death  itself,  but  pure  and  upright  stand, 

For  the  world  says,  go  if  you  will. 


TO  M.  J.  M., 


ON    HER    SIXTH  BIRTHDAY. 

Six  times  the  years  have  circled  round, 

And  touched  thy  golden  hair ; 
Six  times  thou  hast  heard  the  sound, 

Of  Spring  birds  in  the  air ; 
Six  times  Winter's  breath  has  fanned 

Thy  brow  of  ivory  white ; 
Six  times  thy  little  hands  have  planned 

Summer's  nosegays  bright. 
Six  times  the  crimson  Autumn  bud 

Thy  rosy  cheek  hath  shamed, 
And  her  rich  and  beauteous  flood, 

'Fore  thy  violet  eyes  hath  reigned. 
And  thou  standest  'mid  the  gay, 

Minus  one  grief  or  tear, 
To  welcome  thy  glad  birthday, 

And  enter  thy  seventh  year. 


PA  TCH  WORK—JU  VENILE  POEMS.  349 


We  wish  thee  joy,  dear  little  one, 
As  we  crown  thy  wavy  hair, 

May  thy  life,  so  beautifully  begun, 
Ne'er  be  less  bright  and  fair. 


CLOSING   LINES. 


To  you  who  to  these  pages  have  lent  your  kind  attention, 

My  thanks  I'd  speak,  my  gratitude  would  mention  ; 

Let  me  wish  that  many  a  blessing,  many  an  offering  true, 

Fate  behind  her  curtain  may  have  in  store  tor  you. 

May  you  have  found  a  trifling  thought  upon  some  page, 

That  you'll  keep  for  aye  on  life's  great  stage  : 

May  some  cheerful  element  for  each  one  lurk 

Within  the  out-stretched  arms  of  modest  "  Patchwork." 

A  word — a  thought — trifling  though  perchance  it  be, 

May  comfort  'mid  the  billows  of  Life's  tempestuous  sea ; 

Oh  !  let  not  the  little  lustre  of  my  simple  rhymes  be  marred, 

Or  judged  by  some  standard  author,  or  by  some  ancient  bard ; 

You've  read  their  works  perhaps  a  dozen  times  or  more, 

Look  kindly  on  one  just  stepping  to  the  literary  floor; 

Should  it  seem  unpolished  in  Tennyson's  society, 

You  surely  will  admit  that  the  spice  of  life's  variety ; 

And  its  flaws  and  failings,  please  to  pass  them  o'er, 

And  treasure  but  the  best  in  Memory's  vast  store : 

She  says  in  plaintive  voice :     "  Accept  my  wayward  verse ; 

Accept  it  kindly — '  for  better  or  for  worse;'" 


25o  PATCHWORK— JUVENILE  POEMS. 


And  one  day  on  a  griefless  shore  in  a  golden  street, 
May  the  readers  and  author  of  "  Patchwork  "  meet ; 
There  'mid  countless  brows,  ne'er  frowning  but  pleasant  • 
Thus  I  bid  you  all  good-bye  for  the  present. 


INDEX. 


PAGE. 

Lend  a  Hand,         -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        •    '  :  $ 

Hope,  6 

A  Friend, -6 

Walking  in  the  Snow,  7 

Lucy's  Summer  Season,         ...--....  8 

Think  of  Me, 10 

One  Had  a  Fortune,  the  Other  Had  None,  ...  12 

Atlanta,  .         -         -         -         - 13 

To  My  Former  Teacher, -       14 

Press  On  !  15 

We  Die  Together, 17 

The  Flower  Gift, -        -       18 

The  Heart's  Own  Story, 19 

On  Visiting  Mt.  Auburn  Cemetery,  ..-_--;        20 

A  Mother  in  Heaven, 21 

Not  Totally  Lost, 21 

Acrostic,  ...-..-----  22 

A  Bride  to  Her  Husband, -   f      23 

To  an  Old  Shoe,  -  26 

Lines  to  My  Music  Teacher  -'        28 

Friendship,  ...  .......31 

A  Scene  from  the\Window,  ....-.-  32 

Lines  to  Little  Eddy, '        -    • .  v         33 

Over  the  Sea,  34 

When  I  Was  Nellie  Lane,  -        -        -        -        -  -~     -          34 

Serenity, -  35 

Plymouth  Rock, ---35 

Lines  to  Friends,        ----------  37 

Meetings  and  Partings,  -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        ^39 


j    '  PAGE. 

In  Memory  of  Frank  Currier, -  41 

Parting  Lines,                -- 42 

Silver  Wedding  Verses,            ....----  45 

The  Marble  Heart, 47 

Galena,                ._„_-------  48 

Fire,              V 48 

October, 49 

Guard  Thy  Lips,                                                -_ 50 

Eyes,                --.-'.»' 50 

Long  Engagements,            -      '  -        -        -        -        -        -        -        -  5r 

September, -52 

The  Message  I  Would  Leave, 53 

A  Woman's  Heart,  ---------53 

The  Stepmother's  Chair, Vf'  55 

Drop  a  Tear  for  that  Lone,  Little  One, 56 

Lost  Star  of  the  Night,        -        -  57 

Nellie, - 5» 

He  Had  but  One  Fault,  58 

Cilome, 62 

Hearts  and  Clothes, 63 

Dear  Mother,  I'm  Thinking  of  Thee,  64 

The  White  Dress,  65 

Love  That's  Love  Forever, 65 

Ariel  and  Little  Nell, 67 

Give  Me  the  "  Dinner  of  Herbs,"  68 

Our  Better  Home,  69 

A  Double  Life,  71 

A  Prophecy,  72 

The  Impress  on  the  Sand,             - 74 

And  the  Years  Go  By,  75 

At.  the  Close  of  Summer's  Last  Day,            .        -        -        -        -        -  76 

Susan  Jane,  ....-.-----77 

Love  of  a  Lifetime,            --                 ......  78 

The  Sailor's  Wife,  79 

The  Grain  of  Musk,                                                                           -        -  81 

Tired  of  Life,            - ';     -        -        - --  81 

Lines,                              ....--.---  82 

I  Forget  Thee  Not,                -  84 


PAGE. 

On  the  Shore  of  Lake  Michagan,         --.-_..  85 

J^Jever  Dispair,             ----------  IQI 

An  Inventory,         ----------  102 

Single  the  Golden  Thread,             --------  103 

"  Sometime,"            -------        -_»\  104 

Old  Year,  Good-Bye, 105 

Love  Goes  Afoot,            --.._.         ...  106 

Memorial  Day,             -----.._-.  108 

To  My  Cousin  on  His  Fifteenth  Birthday,        -  109 

Over  the  Way,             ------._-.  no 

Resignation,             ------.___  H2 

To  Georgia  and  Katie  Marsh,             -         -         -         -         -         -         .  113 

Only  Jessie,             .._ n^ 

Commencement  Day,         -         -         -         -         -         -         -         -         _  115 

The  Age  of  Scandal,             ---------  117 

Valley  of  the  Oriskany, 118 

"  Fatal  Friendship,"             ----._...  ng 

Responsive  Lines,             -         -  ' -         -  121 

Dark  Hours,         ----------         .123 

Salutatory  Poem,             ---------  124 

The  Old  Oak  Tree, 126 

The  Lost  Photograph, .-.  127 

Death  of  Lina  Miller, -  128 

An  Argument  on  First  Love,           -------  130 

Ready  to  Go,             ----------  132 

Lines  to  the  Old  Year,             --------  133 

In  Memory  of  George  E.  Archer,               ------  134 

The  Broken  Promise,             ---------  136 

A  Legacy,             --.... 139 

On  the  Death  of  Mrs.  Charlotte  A.  Bartlett,             -                           -;y'  140 

And  Is  It  So  ?            - 142 

Let  Me  Die  in  My  Youth,             --------  143 

One  Thing  to  Talk  and  Another  to  Do, 144 

Love  That  Will  Stem  Fire  and  Water, 145 

In  Memory  of  Dr.  A.  Beardsley,             ........  14$ 

Duty, I48 

Who'd  Strive?        ----------  xgo 

Thither. 150 


i'AGB. 

Will  You  Think  of  Me  ?            .....        »  V  ,t  y-  .  150 

Forgive,            -        -   yy"     •   "'           '. -•        -        •        '"   ; " '.    :'- "*  r5x 

Her  Father's  Choice,            -        -        -        -        -        -        -        *  '•  151 

To  Mrs.  Daniels,        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        .        *        i  154 

Sweet  Hour  of  Prayer,            ........  156 

To  Bunker  Hill  Monument,             -        -        .        .        .        .    \   a '  '  157 

The  Two  Bears,         ..........  158 

A  Year, I5g 

Sunshine  and  Shadow,         - 160 

Lines  on  Receiving  a  Bouquet  of  House  Plants,        -        -        -  162 

Anna,  The  Washerwoman's  Daughter,            .....  163 

The  Bright  Side, ;  y<  '  165 

Close  of  the  Year  'Seventy-Three,            -•-.-._  165 

On  the  Death  of  Fannie  Currie,                     167 

Superstition, .   .-«'  .*,',  168 

Snow  Flakes,             ......._..  jgg 

Lines  to  Willard,            --        -        -        -        -        -        -.  170 

Star  of  Hope,            -        -        -,-        -«-        -        .        .        .  tji 

The  Way  in  Which  He  Leads  Us,         r  .        V       -        .        .        _  I72 

Auntie,  Good- Bye,            .........  ^3 

Angel  of  Comfort,         ...--.-..  174 

Requiescat  in  Pace,            .........  ^g 

Love  Versus  Riches,        -        -        -        -        -        -        -        .        ^  176 

The  Belle  of  Long  Branch, '»?,  178 

Fallen  Castles,          .    '„    -        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  tjg 

The  Carrier's  Call,         - .-  180 

Papa's    Hair,             .         .         .         .         -         .         .         .         .         .  T8i 

A  Hit  on  Young  Americas,          -        -        -        -        --        -        -  181 

Thanksgiving  Day,             -...-....  182 

Two  Rings  of  a  Lifetime,             -._-__._  jSg 

Knitting  Scarlet  Worsted, ^5 

Working  and  Waiting,         .--.-....  j86 

A  Woman's  Hand !            .........  ^7 

My  Heart  Is  Breaking,             ........  r8g 

At  Night, ".  .      . .  190 

The  Castle  of  Cards, 191 

Somewhere,  Sometime,        ..---._..  jg2 

In  the  Arbor  at  the  Foot  of  the  Garden,           .....  i^ 


FAGB. 

Over  the  Hills  in  Berry  Time,            .......  194 

Milking  the  Cows,                .........  105 

The  Hand  without  the  Heart, -        ..  196 

Dead  on  a  Bed  of  Roses,            ........ •.  f  198 

Fanny  Fern,            -                                      ...  199 

A  Memory  of  New  Year's  Eve,             -             -             .             -          "  .,  200 

Give  Your  Old  Clothes  Away,          -            ....  201 

To  My  Mother  on  Her  Birthday,            -            ....  203 

What  Shall  We  Leave  on  Memory's  Page  ?  204 

Johnnie,  the  Bootblack,            ......  205 

The  Last  Sabbath  of  the  Year,                -            ....  206 

The  Blighted  Name,                 ......  207 

A  Spark  at  the  Bottom,         -                          ....  208 

"  Glances,"            -                                      -                         ...  209 

Only  a  Blacksmith's  Son,        -            -            -            -            -            .  210 

My  Woodland  Bower,                 -             -             -             .             -             -  211 

A  Ray  of  Light,        -                                                  ...  212 

On  The  Death  of  a  Bride,            -..-.,  212 

Jerushy  and  Joe,             .......  213 

Only  a  Silver  Ring,                                                     -             -             -  214 

Purity  Undefiled,                          ------  215 

Farewell,                 -                                        ....  216 

The  Old  Hill  Farm,             ......  217 

She  Answered  No,                                    '  -            -            -            -  218 

Two  Homes.              -                         .....  220 

I  Wait  Beside  the  River,  -  -  -  -  -  -221 

Delphine,                -                         -  222 

May  and  November,               -             -             -             -             -             ,   \  224 

Christmas  Eve,              -             -             -             -             -             -             -  227 

Waiting  at  the  Window,              -                                                                   .  227 

The  Morning  Kiss,                                                     ...  229 

Sunlight  in  the  East,            ...-_.  230 

The  Young  Man's  Farewell  to  Home,                          ...  230 

The  Young  Man's  Return  to  Home,            -  232 

A  Picture  of  Memory,              ......  233 

Happy  New  Year,  Dear  Mamma !                          -             -             -             -  235 

Busy  the  Hand  to  Still  the  Heart,               ....  236 


PAGE. 

Sleep,  Dear  Mother, 
The  Unknown  Tomb, 

Expect  the  Worst  and  Hope  for  the  Best,  -       239 

Dead,  24° 

Beneath  White  Ties,  241 

A  Shining  Temple,'  243 

"  Cottage  Hill,"  244 

"One  Loving  Heart,"       -  -                         -       24° 

On  the  Pinnacle,        -  247 

To  M.  J.  M..  248 

Closing  Lines,  -            -            249 


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